


It's Wonderful Ice

by JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - It's a Wonderful Life Fusion, Anxiety, Canon-Typical Alcohol and Drug Use, Depression, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, but only briefly, but really it’s very fluffy, deus ex johnson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-22 07:45:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16593743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle/pseuds/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle
Summary: Jack despairs when Samwell Men's Hockey is threatened and he doesn't know if he can save it, and he thinks everyone who cares about him would be better off of he'd never been born. With a little help, he sees how the lives of his loved ones would have played out without him.





	1. Johnson

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, y'all! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! Thanks to [jamesiee](https://https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesiee/pseuds/jamesiee) and [RabbitRunnah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabbitRunnah/pseuds/RabbitRunnah) for the beta work, and many thanks to an anonymous friend and artist for a lovely fanmix that can be found [here.](https://open.spotify.com/user/dyq0gn9q2f7ad3c81vvdbo53a/playlist/3Frq8SzAOecYKPTTdxgktC?si=RNq9D-QzQrmOvg7GxGmGNg)

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/157689062@N06/30930260057/in/dateposted-public/)

John Johnson turned in his sleeping bag, drawing the hood more snugly around his head. It was the coldest night yet. He’d crossed into Georgia a few days ago, after making his way nearly 2,000 miles. Tomorrow he would officially finish the Appalachian Trail.

It had taken a full six months, going north to south, taking advantage of the relatively mild temperatures and sunlight late into the evenings in New England at the end of June. Now, just a few days before Christmas, temperatures at night dropped into the teens in the north Georgia mountains, colder than it had been when he started in Maine, up north of Montreal. He sighed in contentment, though. With the L.L. Bean sleeping bag he’d picked up just before starting at Mount Katahdin, the cold wasn’t a problem.

The problem was what to do next. The trail had offered a way to step away from the world, while still existing in a kind of holding pattern after leaving Samwell. He wished he knew how the story there would end. He suspected it had to do with that freshman, Eric Bittle. 

The first time Bittle appeared on the ice, Johnson had watched from between the pipes and seen the possibilities: Bittle was an attractive, personable young guy, lots of potential for character growth, just the sort to be the protagonist in a coming-of-age story.

Until Bittle showed up, Johnson thought the Samwell story belonged to Zimmermann, already working on a redemption arc at 22. But Bittle … Johnson had known his part in the Samwell story was over as soon as Bittle bumped his fist and accepted his dibs.

It wasn’t Bittle who turned up in Johnson’s dream when he drifted off, cocooned in synthetic fiber. Somehow he knew the baby he saw was Jack Zimmermann, even though the little butterball being held up over the Stanley Cup was so ugly he was cute. At least until his face turned red and he started grunting. Well, maybe that looked like Jack Zimmermann, but the rest of the package bore no resemblance to the disgraced hockey prince Johnson met more than two decades later. That Jack Zimmermann was all hard edges and sharp angles. His physique wouldn’t have been out of place on a marble statue; his personality, at least at first, was just as cold.

Johnson settled into sleep, letting his subconscious take in the scene. Definitely the Zimmermann parents holding the rugrat. Gods, but was Jack’s mom hot. His dad was just Jack, really, but with warm brown eyes and an easy smile, and utterly delighted with his son, who had just filled his diaper in the greatest trophy in all of sports.

The light changed from the blue-white of an ice rink to a warm golden glow, and Johnson saw a kitchen with sliding doors open to a deck fringed by pine trees. The sun was on its way to setting, and Jack, now a portly toddler, was twirling across the floor with Alicia while a song with the lyrics in French played from a stereo on the counter. Jack giggled, and in that moment he looked more like Bad Bob than Johnson had ever seen in real life. But then Jack’s tiny brow furrowed and his plump lips pursed. “Maman, il est où Papa ?" he asked.

“Your papa is away for a game,” Alicia said, sweeping the small boy up and continuing to dance with him around the kitchen. “But we can have our own fun and tell him all about it when he comes home.”

“On pourra danser avec Papa?”

“Of course we can dance with Papa,” Alicia promised, and as she turned, Jack still in her arms, the picture dissolved.

The next Jack was only a bit bigger -- not quite kindergarten age, Johnson thought -- and he was made even bulkier by the pint-sized hockey equipment he wore. No snow pants and parka for him when he skated; he had real hockey pants with thick knit socks, shoulder pads and a jersey as he propelled himself across the ice in the clear light of winter. He was outside, and not alone, skimming across the ice with Bob, who was not in full gear despite the cold. Father and son passed a puck back and forth as they skated up the ice, Jack pushing to go as fast as he could while Bob kept up with easy, smooth strides.

“Tire!” Bob shouted.

Jack drew his stick back and smacked the puck, launching it into the net that stood at the end of the outdoor rink. The net had all but its corners and five-hole blocked off with a sheet of plywood. Shit. If Jack could hit a six-inch target in stride when he was what, four? It was no wonder he scored on Johnson at will when he showed up at Samwell.

Small Jack had his stick raised above his head when his father pulled him close and picked him up in a two-man family celly.

The Jack in the next scene had to be in school at least. He was taller and maybe not quite as chunky as preschool Jack, but he still had round cheeks and at least a bit of baby fat in his belly. He seemed determined to do something about it, though, as he pulled himself up on a chin-up bar, his knuckles white and his face red.

“Come on, Jack,” said the boy next to him. This boy was shorter and slighter, his hair damp with sweat. “We’ve been working out since I got here. Wanna watch a movie?”

“Three more,” Jack grunted. “You can be done if you want.”

“Fine,” the other kid said. “I’m done. I’m gonna go ask your mom for popcorn, okay? Maybe she’ll let us have soda too.”

“Too much sugar,” Jack said, pulling up again. “Two more. Tell her I’ll have water, please.”

The kid left, and Jack pulled up again. And again. He let himself hang for a moment and then said, “Five more.”

Johnson was glad that the next time he saw Jack, he was on a couch instead of in a gym. But he wasn’t at home. It was an office, and Jack -- now big-boned and awkward, like he didn’t know what to do with his limbs -- was staring at his lap. A woman wearing an understanding expression sat in the armchair opposite.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I couldn’t breathe,” Jack said.

“Why couldn’t you breathe?”

“I thought I failed,” Jack said. “The teacher hates me.”

“Are you sure that’s true?”

Jack shrugged.

“I didn’t want to be there anymore, and I couldn’t,” he said.

“Couldn’t what, Jack?”

“Be.”

The woman took a deep breath, and Jack mirrored it, maybe unconsciously.

“Did you fail?” she asked gently.

“No,” Jack said. “But --”

“What really happened?”

“I messed up.”

“You made a mistake in your history presentation?”

“Yes,” Jack mumbled.

“Did you fail?”

“I didn’t get it right.”

“But what grade did you get?” she pressed.

“A-minus.”

“So you did quite well, according to your teacher’s standards,” the therapist said.

“I guess,” Jack acquiesced. “But I could have done better.”

Maybe Jack actually learned that lesson, because the next thing Johnson saw was Jack sitting on a bench in a rink next to another boy, this one a goalie, who was staring at his skates and looking dejected.

“You did your best,” Jack said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

The scoreboard showed a 7-5 score. Ouch.

“I let in seven goals,” the goalie said.

“It wasn’t all on you,” Jack said. “We let you down. We all sucked.”

“You scored two goals,” the goalie said. “Five goals should be enough. We’re not gonna win unless I get better.”

“We all have to get better,” Jack said. “We win and lose as a team, remember?”

It was more or less the same speech Jack gave to Johnson after losing in the playoffs.

“And you will get better,” Jack continued. “We can go out this summer and practice.”

Then it was summer, and a teenage Jack was on a deck with his parents. The phone on the table in front of them buzzed, and Bob picked it up.

“Oauis, allo?”

“Of course, he’s right here.”

Bob handed the phone to Jack and mouthed “Rimouski” to Alicia.

Jack stumbled through a brief phone conversation before ending the call.

“First round,” Bob said, as soon as Jack put the phone on the table. “Rimouski’s a good team. Congratulations, son. You’re on your way.”

Jack ducked his head. “Merci, Papa.”

The scene shifted again, and Jack was back on the ice, taller and looking like his body had figured out how to coordinate itself. Maybe that was just because he was on skates, though. He was taking shot after shot, easily a dozen from one place before skating to another point and doing it again.

Another player called from the other end, “Hey, Zimms, it doesn’t matter how long you stay out here. I’m still gonna have better hands.”

The other player kept practicing too.

“Fuck off, Parse,” Jack answered, but there was no heat in it. “Learn to skate, why don’t you, and we’ll talk. Wanna do some passes?”

Then there was a blur of hockey -- game-winning goals, pucks that pinged the post and flew harmlessly away, hard hits that made the boards shake and the glass rattle. And the buzzers. Each time Johnson heard one he was reminded of what he’d heard in the first story where he realized he was a side character: When a buzzer rang, it meant a someone like him was finally getting their own story. Maybe that was why he chose hockey, to hear the buzzers again and again.

As the skates scraped the ice and the pucks whistled past, Johnson saw Jack smile and grimace and laugh, and he wondered what it was that this game did for Jack. Was it a haven from the complications of the rest of the world? A chance to measure up to his father? Or just a place to revel in his skill?

More and more, Parse was there, on Jack’s team, on Jack’s line, ready to receive Jack’s pass, in Jack’s arms as they celebrated.

Then he was in Jack’s arms in a nondescript hotel room, and shit, Johnson didn’t need to see this. But maybe it wasn’t what Johnson thought it was, because Jack was talking -- well, whispering -- and Johnson could hear what he was saying.

“Of course you’re going to make it,” Jack told Parse. “You’re so fast, and your hands are so good. You’re the best, Kenny. It doesn’t matter about your parents. They’re gonna look at you and everyone’s going to want you.”

“Including you?” Parse said, and reached up to kiss him. Johnson saw enough to know Jack kissed back before the scene changed.

Jack was in a bathroom, eyes a little glassy, hands shaking as he struggled to open an orange pill bottle.

“That’s two,” he said, putting one in his mouth before taking a pull from the bottle of Molson next to the sink.

He stood for a few minutes leaning on the counter, head down between his hunched shoulders. His whole body was trembling.

He looked up. “Can I have another one?” he asked his reflection. “I need another one.”

This time he didn’t have to struggle with the lid because the bottle was already open. He put one in his mouth, took a swig of beer, and said, “Two.”

Then the dream went dark, and Johnson waited. He’d known about Jack’s overdose -- at least that it had happened -- and he also knew Jack came back. So he waited, and hoped.

In the next scene, Jack was in a different therapist’s office, looking at his lap again, crying this time.

”I messed up, and I ruined my parents’ lives,” he said. “They’ll never trust me again, and no team is going to sign me, either.”

Then Jack was sitting in a kitchen, eating breakfast with Bob and Alicia. “Whatever you decide to do, we’re proud of you,” Bob said. “Maybe we didn’t say that enough.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jack said. “It’s -- I just -- It’s the way I am. I can handle it.”

“But you don’t have to do it by yourself,” Alicia said, laying a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Everyone needs help with something.”

The scene changed, and Jack was back on the ice, but not in a hockey sweater. Now he was a coach, surrounded by a gaggle of kids. He was demonstrating, watching, encouraging, correcting -- always with a smile and a compliment, too, Johnson noticed. And he was laughing.

The dream seemed to be hurtling towards its conclusion, because the next time Johnson saw Jack was at Faber. Jack was facing a team of upperclassmen who were all younger than him, and all ready to write him off as a screw-up. Johnson knew. He’d been there. He was there, in the dream. This time, Johnson saw what he hadn’t seen then: Jack taking a moment to count his breaths before skating out for his first practice; Jack purposely turning away and ignoring insults, just skating faster and shooting harder; Jack embracing Shitty Knight in cellys because for the first several games, the other players kept their distance.

Most of them came around eventually, as Jack carried the team to a better record than any of the others could remember, and Jack got voted captain by a bare majority. He was still tough -- on himself and on the team -- and he was still wracked with anxiety from time to time, but Johnson saw him try to take care of his team, insisting they eat together at least a couple of times a week, telling them to lay off the simple carbs and alcohol, shagging them into the weight room to work out together.

Watching Jack in the dream -- seeing things from Jack’s perspective -- felt different from living with Jack had. Then, Johnson was willing to believe Jack meant well, but too often it felt like he was issuing orders, not offering friendly advice.

Still, Jack’s second year was better than his first. The best of the freshmen -- a D pair that seemed like they were separated at birth, despite coming from different countries -- fell into the nexus created by Jack and Shitty and a small Vietnamese girl who was terrifying as manager.

Johnson never quite got pulled all the way into their orbit, but he knew the other upperclassmen saw him as aligned with them. By the time Johnson was a senior, most of the players who resented Jack so much they couldn’t see his value to the team had graduated or quit, and Johnson found himself the only one of his year living in the Haus.

It was definitely Jack’s team then, to succeed or fail with, and Johnson had never quite realized the pressure that put on Jack until now.

Johnson watched Jack walk into the first meeting of his junior year, watched his eyes land on Bittle, who entered the room carrying a pie in front of him like a shield. Johnson remembered the pie; he was among the players who demolished it, scooping the filling into his mouth with his fingers. That pie was the shit.

He didn’t remember the way Jack’s face twisted when he saw Bittle, who, to be fair, was about the size of some of Jack’s old peewee players. Jack was intent on not just playing in the NHL, but being a star, a legend, living up to his father’s legacy and then some. For that to happen, he needed this team to succeed. Not necessarily to win it all -- no one could predict that -- but to be good, good enough to change some minds. On looks alone, it was hard to see how Bittle would help with that.

The pie didn’t help. Neither did Bittle’s habit of collapsing on the ice every time anyone so much as bumped him.

Johnson remembered the way Jack’s scowls grew darker, the way his frowns grew deeper the first few weeks of that fall. But now, his mind’s eye settled solely on Jack, Johnson noticed his long, assessing looks when Bittle sped up the boards with the puck, the concern on his face when Bittle crumpled _again._

“You gotta admit, brah, his hands are quick,” Shitty told Jack. “You saw that assist. He’s fast, too. Faster than you, maybe.”

“Not when he’s in a heap on the blue line,” Jack saud. “You know he was a figure skater? There was one of his routines at the end of the recruiting video Hall and Murray showed me. I don’t know what they were thinking.”

“Maybe that you could use someone who can keep up with you to pass to?” Shitty said.

“Like he’s going to play first line if he can’t skate through body contact.”

“You don’t want him off the team,” Shitty said. “He probs wouldn’t be here at all without the scholarship, and besides, everyone loves him. Makes the whole team a little brighter.”

“We don’t have room on the roster for a mascot, Shitty,” Jack said.

“Who said he has to be a mascot? He’ll get better.”

“Not without help, he won’t.”

The next scenes Johnson saw were Jack and Bittle alone on the ice, the sky still dark in Faber’s windows. Jack skated into Bittle again and again, from the front, from the side, slower and then faster. At first, Bittle was in full gear and Jack was without pads. As Jack turned up the intensity, he started gearing up. Johnson though the best description of Bittle’s expression was “grimly determined.” Until it was just “determined,” and then it was more and more confident.

As the scene shifted again, Johnson knew exactly where -- and when -- they were: the game where Bittle went ass-over-teakettle and landed on his head. Johnson had felt sick when he watched it happen the first time. Now, knowing Bittle would be okay in the end, he watched Jack.

Jack was about to raise his arms to celebrate his goal when he saw Bittle go flying. Jack turned ashen, nearly as pale as the ice. He didn’t rush to attack the offending player or skate to aid Bittle. The rest of the team and the coaches had that covered. He just stood staring, whispering, “Bitty.”

The year sped by until they were at the banquet -- Jack was surprised when Bittle voted for him as captain -- and then Johnson found Bittle in the Haus kitchen and offered him his dibs. It was the only real choice, he thought. The kid had proved himself over and over, and, what’s more, he practically lived in the Haus already. Bittle looked a little confused as they bumped fists, but cautiously pleased as well, and Johnson told him, “I’ll leave the bed for you.” At that moment, he knew it was time for him to fade out, and he felt like a shadow of himself when he crossed the stage at graduation.

The next August, Johnson was back in territory where he couldn’t fill in the blanks from his own memories. He was still following Jack in his dream, but the first thing he saw was Bittle. This was a new version of Bittle, broader through the shoulders and thicker in the thighs than the one who brought a pecan pie to the first meeting the year before. The floppy, little-boy hairstyle was gone in favor of a sharp undercut and his clothes seemed to be chosen to show off as much sun-kissed skin as possible. Yup, Jack definitely noticed. So did the rest of the street.

There was more checking practice as Bittle got back on the ice, and more baking than Johnson would have expected Jack to participate in. The way Bittle was looking at Jack -- well. But Bittle was showing up an awful lot in Jack’s life, and he always looked so golden and bright and warm.

Johnson started to wonder if the dream was just a way to show him the end of Bittle’s story, so he wouldn’t drift away without knowing how the loose ends tied themselves up. It looked like they were headed toward falling in love and living happily ever after, no drama, no fuss.

Then Kent Parson showed up.


	2. Jack

Jack closed his eyes and groaned. The throb of the music shook the floorboards, and when he came upstairs, he had to shove a couple of bodies away from his door just to get into his room. He’d pushed the door open and flipped the overhead light on, making the couples (and was that a threesome?) who were taking advantage of the dim corridor squirm away from the illumination. 

He was sure they came back as soon as he closed the door and stood with his back against the inside of it.

He was still standing there when someone banged on the wood, hard enough that the door jumped in its frame and knocked against him.

He turned to yank it open and yell at whoever thought their right to make out in relative anonymity trumped his right to get to his room, but --

“Remember when we were like this?” Kent asked, gesturing to the pair just to the left of Bittle’s door as he stepped across the threshold. 

Jack slammed the door closed behind him.

“Shhh,” Jack said. “You don’t want anyone to --”

“Oh, come on, Zimms,” Parse said. “They’re all way too occupied to be paying attention, and even if they weren’t, they’re wasted out of their minds.”

“Why are you here, Kenny?”

“Can’t I want to catch up with my old teammate?”

“That’s all you want?”

That was never all Kent wanted. Every time, he wanted to go back and pull Jack with him, like he wasn’t complete unless they were Parse-and-Zimms, like he didn’t have two Stanley Cups, a C, and more zeroes on his contract with the Aces than he had ever imagined.

“Really,” Kent said. “So, where do you think you’re going to sign?”

“It could be Montreal, it could be Providence, “ Jack said. “I don’t know yet, okay?”

“What about Vegas?” Kent said. “I could talk to the GM, get them to free up cap space. Whaddya say? You can be free of this shitty team.”

“Get out,” Jack said. Because that was low. The Wellies weren’t the Aces -- far from it -- but they didn’t pretend to be. And they were more than Jack’s teammates. They were his friends, maybe the first real ones Jack had ever had.

“Jack --”

“You can’t come to my fucking school and corner me in my room -- "

“Only because you shut me out,” Kent said, his voice low, trying to be soothing. “I’m trying to help.”

“-- and expect me to do whatever you want.”

“Fuck, Jack, I miss you, okay?” I miss you.”

“You always say that,” Jack said.

Then Kent surged up, pressing himself against Jack, reaching to kiss him, hitting Jack’s cheek when Jack turned his head. Because he knew Kent’s plays by now.

Kent settled back on his heels. “Well, fuck, Jack. You think you’re too fucked up for anyone to care about? That you’re not good enough? Everyone already knows what you are, and it’s people like me who still care.”

Jack reached for the doorknob. “You need to move on, Kent.”

When he pulled the door open, expecting the corridor to still be dark and full of people, he got a surprise. The light was on now, and Bittle -- who else would it be? -- was was crouched in front of his door, as though he could make himself so small that Jack and Kent wouldn’t see him.

Kent was tugging his snapback on more firmly, saying, “Good luck with the Falconers. I’m sure that will make your dad proud.”

He stepped around Bittle and stalked off. Jack slammed the door shut before Bittle could say anything. Jack slumped to the floor, back against the door again, and he felt more than heard Bittle’s gentle tapping a moment later.

Jack ignored it and got up to sit on the bed, balancing his laptop on his knees. He plugged his headphones in and booted up Episode 4 of “The War.” As the music swelled, he tried to blot out the noise from the party. He’d spent an hour down there, watching Lardo rule at pong, chirping Bittle as he fussed over the snacks he set out on the dining room table, shaking his head at Ransom and Holster as they chatted up two girls.

Shitty had been holding court behind the cooler filled with tub juice on the porch. Jack had leaned against the wall next to him, breathing in the cold night air while he took in Shitty’s lack of appropriate clothing.

“It’s December, Shits,” he said. “Ever think of wearing -- I don’t know, long pants? Or sleeves?”

“Nah, brah,” Shitty said. “I got my tub juice to keep me warm.”

“Not too much,” Jack said.

“C’mon, Cap,” Shitty protested. “We don’t have any games until after break.”

“And I want you to be alive for them,” Jack said. “Make sure you don’t let anyone else go overboard either. At least not too far.”

“Aye, aye, Cap,” Shitty said, throwing a mock salute in Jack’s direction.

When Jack went back inside, Bittle was standing by the wall watching the dancers, a red Solo cup in one hand and his phone in the other. He looked … wistful was probably the word for it. Which was a strange look, given the noise and the smell and the people all but having sex on the dance floor.

Jack snagged a cup of his own and filled it halfway with water before leaning against the wall next to Bittle. “How’s it going? Thought I’d check in before I head upstairs.”

Bittle, as Jack predicted, chirped him for wanting to leave the party, giving Jack the perfect opening to remind him to lock his door by way of talking about how he had routed the football team from the Haus last year.

Jack was showing off. He knew it. But Bittle was so much fun to show off for. And when he pulled his phone out and Jack offered to take a selfie, the way he looked -- the way Bittle was looking at Jack -- yeah, Jack wanted to have a record of that.

But now, after Kent appeared where he had no business being, the image Jack had of Bittle was of a pale face, eyes huge and worried, looking up at him from the floor. Another person he disappointed.

He looked again at the movie and realized he’d gotten halfway through D-Day without absorbing any of it.

A siren intruded on his thoughts. It was coming closer. Then there was another one, also coming closer. The first fire truck stopped right outside the Haus, red lights strobing across Jack’s ceiling. The second pulled up behind it.

Christ. Did someone call the fire department as a joke? The Haus couldn’t really be on fire, right? He hoped no one had pulled the fire alarm as a prank. No, he would have heard it, even over the noise from downstairs.

Jack watched out the window as the firefighters hustled up the steps of the LAX house across the street, fire extinguishers in hand.

He kept watching as they sprayed foam across the porch, right in front of the front door, with the people partying with the LAX team tonight cheering them on from the windows. He saw Chad C., the captain, watching from the second floor, much like Jack was.

A minute or two later, the firefighters returned to their truck. Couldn’t have been much of a fire, if there was a fire at all. Would the firefighters have discharged their fire extinguishers for a false alarm? Probably not. But maybe someone convinced them that there was something smoldering to avoid the false-alarm fine.

It didn’t matter, Jack thought as he turned away, not bothering to watch the fire captain in the white shirt make his way back up the steps of the LAX house porch, clipboard in hand, to complete his report. No big deal. The lights were turned off and the fire trucks drove away, leaving just the captain’s car parked in front.

Jack settled back on his bed, lying down this time, headphones firmly in place. He’d rather listen to “The War” as he fell asleep than end-of-term revelry.

When he woke in the morning it was, well, not silent, but quiet. He’d slept in, for him, seeing as it was already eight o’clock. He didn’t need to leave for the airport until noon, so after he piled most of what he would need in a suitcase, he pulled on running tights and sneakers. He tugged his toque firmly over his ears and set of, tiptoeing around the strangers sleeping on the floor, on the couch, even on the stairs.

He’d have to make sure the mess got cleaned up today, but that was a job for later.

Jack was just rounding the pond on his way back to the Haus when the ping of a text message interrupted his music. He ignored it until it pinged again, and again.

Who could possibly want him that much this early the morning after a kegster?

It was Holster

_Jack, dude, I don’t know where you are but we need you at the Haus_

_Wait. Did you actually hook up last night? Were you still here when Kent Parson showed up? It was sweet, man_

_Nvm, Bitty says he saw you leave on a run. But come back as soon as you get this_

Jack’s thumb hovered over the reply button to ask what was going on -- please tell him no one got up, stumbled into his room and puked -- but thought better of it. He could pick up his pace and be back at the Haus in a little over three minutes.

When he made the turn onto Jason Street, he noticed the Samwell Fire Department captain’s car was back, with a Samwell Campus Police cruiser pulled up behind it. Odd they were putting so much effort into investigating a not-very-effective prank.

Odd, too, that they were pulled up in front of the Haus instead of across the street.

He went around to the kitchen door, hoping to get a glass of water and find out what was going on.

He was confronted by the fire captain and a campus police officer looming over Shitty, who was seated at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee untouched in front of him. Bittle was hovering in the background, putting muffins in a basket, while Ransom and Holster were peering through the door from the hallway.

“What’s going on here?” Jack asked.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” the police officer said. “Please identify yourself, sir.”

“Jack Zimmermann, captain of Samwell Men’s Hockey,” Jack said, trying to get a read on the situation from Shitty, who still hadn’t looked up.

“Do you reside here?” the officer asked. “Are you currently enrolled as a student in the university?”

“Of course I’m a student,” Jack said. “I couldn’t play hockey here if I wasn’t. And yes, I live here.”

“What can you tell us about the fire across the street last night?” the fire captain asked.

“Nothing,” Jack said, trying to slide toward the sink to get some water. His path was blocked by the fire captain, but Bittle passed a full glass around him. Jack took a gulp and said, ”I saw the fire trucks, but they were only here for a couple of minutes. I thought it was a false alarm.”

“It wasn’t,” the fire captain said. “There was a fire set in front of the front door, blocking egress for a building full of people.”

“But I saw them pull up and leave a few minutes later,” Jack said.

“It seems the fire was pretty much out when they got there,” Bittle piped up from behind the men.

“But you can still see the scorch marks going up the front door,” the fire captain said.

“And the young men who live there say they saw one of your housemates cross the street with a container of accelerant while smoking just before the fire broke out,” the police officer said. “This man. B--” 

“Shitty.” Shitty spoke over the officer.

“Knight.” the officer continued.

“Was anyone hurt?” Jack asked.

“No,” the police officer acknowledged. “But someone might have been.”

“Shitty, did you go over there?” Jack asked.

“I refuse to speak without my attorney present,” Shitty said. “Really, Jack, I’ve told you this. Never talk to a cop without a lawyer.”

Jack turned to the two visitors.

“Seems like he knows his rights,” he said. “And even if he crossed the street -- is that really enough to arrest him? How about we make an appointment for him and his lawyer to come to you to discuss this further? He’ll show.”

“That’s not all,” the police officer said. “In the course of our investigation, we have learned that there were in excess of 100 people at a party here last night, most of them underage, all of them offered alcohol. That’s a violation of the law. Among the people here were virtually every member of the men’s hockey team and the women’s volleyball team. That’s a violation of the athletic code. We haven’t mounted a full investigation -- yet -- but we have reason to believe other illicit substances were present. Because there were egregious violations that may have led to the commission of a crime that threatened human life and property, the athletic board will hold a hearing to determine status of Samwell Men’s Hockey. Quite frankly, I’d be surprised if you play another game this season. Mr. Knight, we’ll expect you at the Samwell Public Safety Office at 10 a.m. Monday, with or without your attorney.”

Shitty just nodded.

The fire captain and police officer left, glaring at Ransom and Holster as they passed the living room. Shitty slumped to the table while Jack stared at him.

“Shits, man, what happened? Did you go over there?”

Shitty looked up.

“Yes. I broke the bylaws, Jack. I knew better. Fuck the LAX bros.”

“Why did you go?” Jack said, trying to keep the anxiety that was clawing up his throat out of his voice.

“Because it’s almost Christmas, brah,” Shitty said. “Even if it is a capitalist, over-commercialized travesty of a holiday, it’s supposed to be a time for peace on earth and good will towards men, women and non-binary dudes. I figured it would be a good peace offering to ask if they wanted to join our kegster.” 

“With a cup of accelerant?”

“Tub juice,” Shitty said.

“And were you smoking?” Jack asked.

“Nah,” Shitty said. “I may have still had my pipe with me, but that bowl was done.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “What happened when you got there?”

“The door was open, because they were having a party too,” Shitty said. “I tried to let myself in, but as soon as I got close, they slammed the door in my face. Made me spill my tub juice. I know when I’m not wanted, brah. I turned around and came back.”

“And you’re sure you didn’t drop anything -- any ashes that might not have been quite out -- before you left?”

“I’m sure, brah. The pipe was already in my pocket.”

“Fine,” Jack said. “Call your lawyer.”

“I don’t actually have one,” Shitty said.

“Then call your dad to get one,” Jack said. “I need to figure out whether they can suspend the team for this.”

“I can’t,” Shitty said. “If I have to tell my dad about this, he’ll pull me out of here last week already. And I haven’t got enough money on my own. Do you think I can get someone from legal aid by Monday?”

Jack snorted. “Nope.”

“We’ll help,” Holster said. “Rans and I. We’ll find someone. Can we use the sin bin money?”

“Sure,” Jack said. “Whatever. I have to go call my parents.”

“You think your dad will help?” Shitty asked, finally looking hopeful.

“Gee, I don’t know,” Jack said. “And I’m not going to find out, all right? I’m not telling them that their screw-up of a son and his screw-up friends screwed up yet again and are in danger of blowing everything they worked for. I’m not doing that to them. I’ll just tell them there was a problem and I couldn’t reschedule for a few days because everything’s booked for the holidays. Then I’ll try to fix this.”

Jack stripped off his hoodie when he got upstairs and threw it on the bed, next to the suitcase.The bag was still open, waiting for him to add his shower stuff and running shoes. Well, it would have to wait a few days.

He picked through it, looking for clean clothes while he called the airline to change his ticket and then called his parents.

“Papa? I have to stay here for a few more days. I got a flight out Wednesday. It’s Shitty. Yeah, you know he doesn’t have the best relationship with his parents? He needs me to do some stuff with him. And the library is still open so I can get some work done on my thesis. No, I’ll be home by Christmas. Yes, I’ll tell him you said that. Bittle? I think he’s going home today.”

As Jack was talking, his hand touched something plastic in his suitcase. Something he didn’t remember putting there.

It was a baggie full of cookies, with a sticky note pasted on the outside. “Dear Jack, I hope you have a ‘swawesome break and come back safe and sound. Enjoy the cookies! ERB”

“Okay, I’ve gotta go, Papa. See you next week, Wednesday, right. Yes, I know that’s Christmas Eve. Tell Maman I love her.”

The cookies didn’t mean anything, Jack told himself. Bittle probably gave all the guys cookies as they left. 

Jack was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to carry homemade baked goods into Canada, not that anyone was likely to check. But maybe he could ask if everyone got some, because he’d need to warn Ransom. … No, he shouldn’t say anything. He didn’t want to make Bittle feel bad. Maybe he should just ask Ransom if he got cookies.

Before Jack showered, he emailed Provost Potter to see if he was still on campus. He was in charge of the athletic board, and what he thought would go a long way towards deciding the fate of the hockey team.

By the time Jack was dried off and dressed, there was an email inviting him to the provost’s office. Today. Fuck. Dr. Potter had never liked Jack, made it clear he hadn’t wanted the university to accept him, all but told him he’d be watching his every move. Now he was waiting in his office to talk to Jack on the Saturday before Christmas.

When Jack got to the administration building, Dr. Potter was the only one there, the door to his office left ajar. Jack pushed it open a little more and cleared his throat to get Potter’s attention.

“Ah, Mr. Zimmermann,” Potter said, looking up from his keyboard. “Do you know what I’m working on?”

“Uh, no, sir,” Jack said.

“Well, just have a seat while I finish up and then I’ll tell you.”

Jack sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk, trying not to roll his eyes at the way he settled several inches below Potter. It was the oldest ploy in the book, and Jack thought it made Potter look petty.

Five minutes later, he acknowledged to himself that it also made him uncomfortable.

He tried clearing his throat again, then said, “Euh, Dr. Potter? If you’re busy I can come back --”

“No, no, I’m just about done,” Potter said. 

Then he turned towards Jack and said, “I’m surprised you’re still on campus. Most students are leaving today, if they didn’t head home for the holidays as soon as their last final was over.”

“I planned to leave today,” Jack said. “But I thought I should stay and --”

“Ah, yes, you wanted to smooth over last night’s disturbance, is that it?” Potter asked, nodding. “That actually has some bearing on what I was working on. Do you want me to tell you what I was writing?”

“Um, yes, sir.”

“It’s a letter to the athletic board recommending that the hockey team be suspended for the remainder of this season and the entirety of next season,” Potter said. “And, of course, if there is no active team, there will be no scholarships for players, and the team will not be eligible for any kind of housing on campus. It will be a good thing, really. It will give us a chance to tear down that hovel you call a house and build something useful. Then when the suspension is over, we can start the hockey program over again.”

“But Dr. Potter, that’s too much,” Jack protested. “Sure, there was a party last night, but there were parties up and down Jason Street. No one tried to start a fire at the LAX house -- at least none of the hockey players -- and no one got hurt.”

“But how many people could have been hurt?” Dr. Potter asked. “Or even killed? I was told by Mr. Carsten that one of your team members, a Mr. Knight, was seen pouring accelerant on the porch and setting it alight, while their house was full of people.”

“Who were all drinking, too,” Jack said. “They might be making a mistake.”

“Mr. Carsten said the guests at the lacrosse house were served soda and cookies,” Potter said.

“You don’t seriously believe that?” Jack protested.

“Mr. Carsten came to this university with a sterling academic record and a history of serving his community admirably,” Potter said. “His past is unblemished.”

Jack snorted. Chad C. was a constant thorn in the side of the entire hockey team, and much of the campus. If his record was unblemished, it was only because he or his family were able to pay people off to turn a blind eye.

“I cannot say the same for you, Mr. Zimmermann,” Potter said, fixing him with a glare from behind the huge oak desk. “You are aware that when you arrived here, I expressed concerns about the kind of influence someone like you -- someone who came to us after an overdose and underage drinking -- would have on the hockey team. I was overruled. But clearly, my concern was not misplaced.”

“I had nothing to do with this,” Jack said. “I wasn’t even there. And even if I was, nothing happened. Sh-- Knight went over to invite the lacrosse players to our party, and had the door slammed in his face. He doesn’t know what happened after that.”

“If you weren’t there, how do you know what happened?” Potter asked.

“Because he told me,” Jack said.

“And you believe him, hmmm? What kind of leadership are you showing your team if they believe it’s acceptable to carouse in public, to attempt to harm fellow students and then to lie about it?”

“That’s not what happened!” Jack said.

“I thought you said nothing happened,” Potter said. “Now, I was just about to send this letter to the athletic board …”

“Wait,” Jack said. “What if I resigned as captain?”

“And resigned from the team? WIthdrew from the university?” Potter said. “If the hockey team were to have a change in leadership, perhaps such a lengthy suspension would not be necessary. If the team was led by someone who would keep them in hand, someone --”

“Someone who is not me?”

“Well, that would be a start. It would do you a world of good to face some consequences, young man.”

Jack wanted to tell Potter to fuck off and then try to get the board to overrule Potter. But if Potter was able to persuade the athletic board, it wouldn’t just be Jack’s future on the line. It would be the whole team’s. Sure, he could try to fight it, try to get the athletic board to see it his way, but if he failed … Shitty would probably be okay. He might have to go where his dad wanted for school, but he’d finish. Ransom and Nursey too. But Holster and Dex needed their scholarships. So did Ollie and Wicks. Lardo needed her job, and Hall and Murray would be out too, and Bittle … he’d never see them again.

If he quit, he might never see them again, but he could imagine them, all together, on the ice and in the Haus. They would be fine, right? But then what would he do? No team would want him, not after the overdose and then being forced off his college team because of a scandal. Papa and Maman would be disappointed, but he could finish university somewhere. And what then?

“Can I think about it?” Jack said. “Can you give me a day before you send it?”

“I’ll do better than that, Mr. Zimmermann. I’ll give you until Monday morning to let me know,” Dr. Potter said. “How does that sound?” 

It didn’t sound great. As a matter of fact, it sounded fucking awful. But he couldn’t put everyone else’s well-being in jeopardy. If only he could turn back time, go back to last night, stay downstairs, hang outside with Shitty, stop him from approaching the LAX house.

Instead, he spent the afternoon trying -- and mostly failing -- to contact the members of the athletic board. The two he did reach by phone were sympathetic but unhelpful. 

“You know the university is trying to take a strong stand on underage drinking,” Professor Boseman said.

“But Shitty is of age,” Jack pointed out.

“Jack, you know as well as I do that most of the people drinking last night were not of age,” Professor Boseman said.

“That was true of people all over campus, not just in the Haus,” Jack said.

“But we need to make a statement,” Professor Boseman said.

Dean Greeley wasn’t any better, although her problem was with the idea that all these parties presented a fire hazard.

By then, the late afternoon gloom had turned to December evening darkness, and Jack slipped out of the Haus to go to Faber. The ice was the one place everything made sense.

Until now. Jack let himself in, stared at the ice, and turned away. 

This wasn’t his place, not anymore. This smooth, perfect oval, glistening silver in the light from the tall windows -- it was pure, pristine. Jack had always loved skating out onto a clean sheet, his skates etching their path as he glided across the surface, leaving his mark the way he once hoped to leave his mark on the game. The way his father had left his mark.

That wasn’t going to happen. It was time to face facts: Jack wasn’t cut out to be a hero. He wasn’t cut out to be a leader. Certainly not a captain. If he was a better captain …

If he was a better captain, this wouldn’t have happened.

Jack hefted the puck bag and his backup stick in one hand, his skates in the other. Maybe Faber wasn’t his anymore, maybe he’d never play in front of 20,000 screaming fans in an NHL arena, but he was still a son of Canada, and hockey was in his blood. If the rink wasn’t his, there was always the pond.

The night was cold and still, almost unnaturally bright with the campus safety lighting reflecting off the snow on the ground and the snowflakes that drifted silently down. Jack knew there was an old broom next to the log where the team put their skates on to play shinny; he grabbed it and swept the fresh snow off a swath of ice.

It seemed like the ice would hold. It hadn’t been very cold for very long, but cold enough long enough? Probably. Maybe. If it wasn’t … well, did it really matter?

He towed the bag of pucks out with his stick and lined up to shoot between two saplings on the shore, the kind of makeshift goal that boys in his neighborhood had used growing up when they couldn’t get the older kids to make room for them on a purpose-built rink.

He sent one puck sailing into the snowbank, then another.

What had Shitty been thinking, even setting foot on the steps of the LAX house porch? Probably not thinking, Jack thought, as he sent pucks numbers three and four into the snow. No, definitely not thinking, if he was carrying a full cup of tub juice, a cup that somehow got upended just in front of the door. How many cups had gone down Shitty’s throat before he thought it would be a good idea to go over there? 

Being seen parading up to the LAX bros’ house with a pipe? Was it really in his pocket? If not, that could have gotten him suspended from the team even without …

Puck five hit the snow bank.

It had been an accident. Jack was sure it had been an accident. Shitty was drunk, and high, and … he said he didn’t do it. But it was still going to cost at least Jack his future. Maybe the others, too.

Fuck. What was even the point? No matter how hard he tried, he always made a mess of things, made things worse for everyone else. Jack slammed his stick on the ground. “It would be better if I’d never been born,” he said.

Then he pulled back to shoot puck six. It whistled across the ice, but instead of hitting the snow, it thwacked into goalie pads.

Then there was a crack as the ice split under the goalie, who definitely had not been there a second ago. 

“Jack!” the goalie yelled. “Jack! Help me!”

Johnson?


	3. Kent and the Zimmermanns

“Fuck, it’s cold! Help me get out of this!”

Jack circled around the crack to the shore. Johnson was standing in about four feet of no doubt frigid water. The unbroken ice around the hole was making it difficult for him to just walk ashore, even though it wasn’t more than a few feet. Jack grabbed the broom and used the handle to break the ice, bit by bit, to give Johnson a path to walk out. Johnson got the idea and used his goalie stick to break the ice from his side, and within seconds, Jack had grabbed Johnson’s stick and helped haul him out of the water.

“Faber’s closest,” Jack said. “Let’s get you in there. I have some extra clothes in my locker that should fit you well enough.”

Once they got to the locker room, Jack told Johnson to strip down and take a warm shower. Ten minutes later, as Johnson reappeared with a towel wrapped around his waist, Jack had the wet goalie gear spread out over the benches to dry and athletic pants, socks and a Samwell hoodie folded in front of Johnson’s old stall.

“There’s no boots, but Shitty left some sneakers that might fit,” Jack said.

“I’m sure they will,” Johnson said. “If they’re necessary for the narrative.”

“What?” Jack asked.

“Never mind,” Johnson said.

“No, really,” Jack said. “What are you doing here? How did you just appear in front of me? In full gear? Where did you come from? How did you know I was out there?”

Johnson shrugged.

“A religious person would say I’m the answer to a prayer,” Johnson said.

“I didn’t … I mean, I would pray if I thought it would help,” Jack said. “I’m in a huge mess.”

“I know,” Johnson said.

“You know? How? Wait -- what do you know? Because not even the team knows all of it. Not yet,” Jack said.

“I know all of it,” Johnson said. “And they’ll figure it out. They care about you.”

“That’s nice, but I don’t think there’s anything they can do,” Jack said. 

He slumped on the bench with his head in his hands. “My life is over. If you know everything, you know that. My parents are going to be so disappointed, and the team -- I thought we could go somewhere this year. Now everyone ... It would be better if I wasn’t here af all.”

“You know better than that,” Johnson said. “You know these guys are devoted to you, and it will kill them for you to walk away, or …”

“Bad luck for them, right?” Jack said. “I’m bad luck for everyone. It would be better if I’d just never been here at all.”

“Dramatic much?” Johnson said. “Even if things are as bad as you think -- which, given your time in therapy, you should know is unlikely -- I promise that the world is a better place with you here.”

“Seriously?” Jack said. “Without me, my parents wouldn’t have had someone nearly destroy their world, my bo -- best friend wouldn’t have had me fuck with his head, the team would have a real leader … How can you say that?”

“First, I know Kent Parson was your boyfriend. Settle down. I’m not telling anyone. Second, you’re wrong.”

Johnson was silent for a moment.

“Okay, I think I’ve got it. You’ve been given something most people never get: A chance to see what the world would be like if you’d never been born. What do you want to see first?”

Jack wasn’t slumped over anymore. Instead, he was staring at Johnson with confusion.

“You feeling alright, Johnny? You think maybe you hit your head when you fell in?”

“Nope, I’m fine now that I’ve warmed up, How’re you feeling, Jack?”

Jack took a moment to assess himself. His shoulder didn’t ache from the last game anymore, and even his head seemed clearer, with the buzz that had been growing louder since this morning absent. He still didn’t know how he could get out of this jam, but physically? He was fine.

“I’m good,” Jack said. “Shoulder’s better, even thinking clearly.”

“That’s because you’re shoulder isn’t bruised because you didn’t play in the last game,” Johnson said. “You weren’t born. You don’t exist. That means your anxiety disorder doesn’t exist either.”

“Right.” 

“Really. Look, want to see how people’s lives played out without you there?”

“Sure,” Jack said. “I’ll play along. Who are we starting with?”

Johnson shrugged.

“When did things start to go bad?”

“In my life? Or last night?”

Johnson shrugged.

“Up to you.”

“I guess the answer’s the same in terms of a person.” Jack said. ”Can we go talk to Kent? He’ll straighten you out. He has a game in Boston tonight, so we’ll probably have to wait until it’s over.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Johnson said. “Kent Parson hasn’t played a single game of NHL hockey. He washed out of the Q. Too many fights, and he was too small to win them. You weren’t there to protect him, and tell him to cool the fuck off. He’s in …” Johnson paused. “Islip? On Long Island. That might present a problem. I mean, I know we made it to this alternate, Jack-free universe, but to travel across distance? I don’t know if I can do this. This is some Christmas Carol-level shit.”

“Right,” Jack said. “You’re telling me I don’t exist and the Aces aren’t playing the Bruins tonight, but you can’t get us to Long Island? Maybe it would be a good idea to get you to the hospital, get you checked out after that dunking. What do you say?”

WIth that, Jack tried to pull his phone from his pocket.

“Wait -- did you see my phone?” Jack said, checking his other pockets as well.

“You don’t have a phone,” Johnson said. “You don’t exist, remember? And the Aces are playing the Bruins, but Kent Parson hasn’t played in a single NHL game.”

“Maybe I left it in my locker,” Jack said, turning to the stall behind him, and stepping back in surprise when he saw it was completely empty.

“Shitty must have been pulling a prank,” Jack said. “Maybe I left my phone at the Haus. But I thought I had …”

Jack rummaged in his hoodie pockets.

“Bitty’s cookies aren’t there either, Jack. Remember, you’ve never been born. Our sweet Georgia winger never came to the frozen north to encounter the dark-haired prince of hockey --”

“What?”

“--that’s a different story. Now, this is what happens if you aren’t there to change things. You wanted to see where Kent is now, so close your eyes. I think I know how to do this.”

Jack closed his eyes. When Johnson told him to open them, he no longer saw the familiar dressing room at Faber.

It was still a dressing room, still in a rink -- he could smell the ice, and the accumulated odor of hockey gear that had seeped into the cinderblock walls -- but it was dank and cold, just benches bolted to the wall. The fluorescent tube flickered, and the rubber floor was scarred with the marks of too many skates. Pucks shot against the gray walls had left black marks. It looked like there was a toilet cubicle in the corner, but Jack had no wish to check inside.

“Let’s go find Kent,” Johnson said.

“Wait -- there’s no way this is TD Garden.”

“Well, duh,” Johnson said. “Once again, for the Jack in the back row. This is what happens if you’d never been born. We’re in a place called Rinxx in Islip.”

They left the dressing room for the corridor that ran behind the ice, then came around to see what was undoubtedly a youth hockey practice. Not little kids. Bantams? Midgets, maybe?

“Kent’s coaching?”

“Really?” Johnson snorted. “Would you trust Parse with a kid? Let alone 20 of them?”

Then Jack caught sight of a shock of blond hair by the glass.

“Come on, stop fuckin’ around,” Parson yelled. ”Time for you to get off the ice.”

Then he headed for the Zamboni bay.

Before he got there, he was waylaid by another guy -- this one a little older. “Parson, what’s with the language?” he said. “This is a family environment.”

“So?” Parson said. “You mean to tell me those fuckers out there never heard the f-bomb? Have you heard their little potty mouths? I bet they hear it all around their kitchen tables, just like I did.”

“Parson --”

“I know, I know,” Kent said. “I’ll watch it, okay?”

“Okay. I’ll try to get you on the ice with the midgets next week. You can teach them a lot. But it’s up to their coach, so maybe try not to rub him the wrong way before then?”

Kent made a three-fingered salute.

“Scout’s honor.”

“Like you were ever a Boy Scout.”

As soon as the other man left, Jack called out, “Kenny!”

“Who’s Kenny?” Kent said, but he turned anyway.

“You are, remember?” Jack said, finally approaching and looking at the man in front of him. Kent … didn’t look bad. He wasn’t in professional hockey shape, and something about his skin and eyes made Jack think he might be drinking a little too much and a little too often, but he hadn’t wasted away or put on a ton of weight.

“Who are you?” Kent finally said, when Jack’s staring went on long enough to be uncomfortable.

“Don’t you remember me? We played together in Rimouski?”

Kent’s stare hardened.

“Jack? Jack Zimmermann? Zimms?” Jack tried.

“Nah, I try not to remember anyone from that fucking disaster of a team,” Kent finally said. “But I think if you’d been there, I’d have remembered you.”

“Come on, Kenny, we were roommates on the road,” he said. “We were on the same line. We were ... best friends.”

“See, now I know you’re lying, because I roomed with Louie Fortin, who refused to speak anything but French, and I never had any friends on that team,” Kent said.

“Sure you did,” Jack said. “Maybe they were all a little jealous of how fast you were but --”

“But what?” Kent said. “Sure, I could outskate the whole team, but no one would ever fucking send me a pass, so what good was it?”

“Kent, you were going to go first in the draft,” Jack said. “What happened to you?”

“Too many guys making fun of me, too many fights -- some even against the other team,” Kenny shrugged. “A couple of concussions, came back too fast, wracked up my knee, I was done.”

“So what now?”

“Now? Now I drive the Zamboni on the rink where I learned to skate and occasionally teach these whiny little brats to skate faster.”

“My parents would have helped you,” Jack said.

“Doofus, I already told you I don’t know you,” Kent said. “No way I know your parents.”

“Bad Bob Zimmermann? Alicia Zimmermann?”

Kent was silent for a moment. Then he said, “You’re not Bad Bob’s kid, ‘cause I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have any. And Alicia who?”

“Zimmermann? His wife?”

When Kent still looked blank, Jack said, “Alicia Montgomery. That’s the name she used when she was acting.”

“Wait … yeah, I think I heard she was married to Bad Bob, like a long time ago,” Kent said. “You know, she still looks really good? Who knew someone her age could be that hot?”

“What? That’s my mom!”

“I really don’t think so,” Kent said. “I’m not sure what your deal is, buddy, but maybe you should just go with your friend there. Tell him you need help. Professional help. He’ll know what I mean. I gotta cut the ice.”

When he turned away, Jack felt a warm hand on his shoulder and turned to see Johnson.

“How can he not remember?” Jack said. “We …”

“I don’t need deets,” Johnson said. “And he doesn’t remember because none of that happened. You were not born, remember? You don’t exist.”

“Maman … Can I see my mother?”

Johnson shrugged.

“That shouldn’t be too hard. I think she’s in New York. Close your eyes.”

This time, Jack noticed that it was warmer -- and it smelled better -- before he even opened his eyes. When he did, he found himself in the lobby of a swank hotel, standing in a corner next to a potted plant, Johnson still at his side. He looked at the well-dressed people criss-crossing the room, some heading to the counters, some to the elevators, and looked down at himself.

“I’m not appropriately dressed,” he said.

“It’s a hotel lobby,” Johnson countered. “Not everyone is dressed up. You’re fine. Come this way.”

Johnson led him across the lobby and down a corridor that led to large banquet or reception rooms. He opened a door and gave Jack a little shove to get him to go in first.

Jack’s first thought was that in this room, they were definitely underdressed. He was in his signature “Burger King bandit” look, something his mother chirped him for endlessly. For all that this was how he preferred to dress when he had only his own comfort to consider, Maman made sure he did know how to present himself properly in virtually any setting. And this dinner screamed dark suit-white shirt-subdued tie.

“We should leave,” he hissed at Johnson.

“No, just sit in the back,” Johnson said. “No one will notice.”

So Jack slipped into an unoccupied chair at the very last table and joined in the applause as his mother stepped to the lectern to speak.

As she thanked whoever the sponsoring organization was for whatever award she had just been given -- something about diversity in fashion? A cause that had always been important to her, but maybe they should have found someone besides a tall, thin, blonde, cis woman. Or maybe he had been listening to Shitty for too long -- Jack just looked at her.

She looked like she should. Mostly. Her hair was a bit longer that she usually wore it, and styled more elaborately than normal. Her makeup had been applied deftly, but with a heavier hand than she usually used, Jack thought. But the biggest difference, to his eye, was that she didn’t look like someone who laughed easily or often.

“I won’t insult anyone here by saying that it’s more important than ever to include people of all races, genders and yes, body types, in the fashion world,” Alicia was saying. “That’s always been important. What I will say is that it is now, perhaps, more possible to do so than in the past, and we must take advantage of the opportunities that are presented to us.”

With that, she gave her final thank-yous and returned to her table just long enough to collect her bag and make her way toward the exit at the rear.

Jack got up and stepped into the corridor to intercept her.

“Maman!” he called as she stepped past him.

She didn’t even turn her head.

“Maman!” 

Nothing.

“Alicia!”

She turned, an insincere smile on her face. “Pardon me, were you speaking to me?”

“Yes, uh, Ms. Montgomery,” Jack stammered. 

“I thought you said … never mind. Did you want an autograph? I have to say I’m flattered that someone your age --” she stopped and looked him up and down “-- and who looks like you would be interested.”

“Um, sure,” Jack said. “And I wanted to speak with you. Maybe we could stop for a drink in the bar?”

“And you’ve got nerve,” Alicia said. “Well, why not?”

Jack followed Alicia to a booth in the bar and sat opposite her, Johnson sliding in next to him.

“Do you know who I am?” Jack demanded.

“Should I?” Alicia countered. “You do look a bit familiar, but I don’t think we’ve ever met. Don’t tell me you’re trying to break into the business? Although those cheekbones … you have potential.”

“No, not that,” Jack said. “Really not that. You really don’t remember me? I’m your son.”

Alicia was shaking her head.

“What? Really, I’m afraid not,” she said. “As lovely as you are to look at … I think I would remember if I bore a child, don’t you?”

“I don’t know exactly what’s going on --” Jack started.

“Yes, you do,” Johnson broke in. “You’ve never been born. Your mother never had any children.”

To Alicia, he said, “Jack here is from an alternate reality. Don’t mind him.”

“-- but I was born in 1990. You’re my mother and Bob Zimmermann is my father.”

“Bobby?” Alicia said. “I haven’t heard from him in more than 20 years. Is this some kind of a joke? Are there cameras on me?”

She looked around, like she was expecting someone to come out and announce that she was on “Candid Camera.”

“What happened?” Jack asked. “With you and Papa? Bob, I mean?”

Alicia shrugged. “It didn’t work out,” she said. “It was an infatuation, I guess, for both of us. But we really didn’t have a lot in common, and we both spent so much time on our careers that when we were together there was nothing to talk about, and we just ended up fighting. He was known for that.”

Jack suddenly had a horrible thought. “He didn’t --”

Alicia laughed. “Hurt me? Physically? Never. But he could have a sharp tongue, and I could more than match it.”

She was quiet for a moment, a sad smile on her face. “I haven’t thought about Bobby for years. You have a remarkable resemblance to him, you know. Were you adopted? Are you searching for your biological parents? I suppose he could be your father -- we spent more time apart than together. Now I really do have to go.”

She stood and wrapped her coat more firmly around her before striding away.

Jack looked at Johnson.

“Can we see Papa?” he asked.

Johnson shrugged.

“Seems likely,” he said. “Close your eyes again.”

The hotel bar disappeared as Jack closed his eyes. When he opened them, he was in a different kind of bar entirely. The walls were paneled in a dark veneer; the lights were low, the better not to see the grime on the floor and the formica tabletops; and everyone in the room was a man, probably all at least 50. His father -- yes, that was Papa, despite the extra weight that Jack had never seen him carry -- was one of the younger ones, Jack thought.

Papa sat at the bar, fixated on the hockey game on the TV. Bruins against the Aces, of course. Jack watched from his corner for a moment, noticing that there was no number 90 on the Aces taking the puck and doing magical things with it. Too bad for them; they really could have used the help. As it was, every time one of the Aces got the puck, they were mugged. Some of the hits were just to the right side of legal, others weren’t, but the refs didn’t seem inclined to call much of anything.

Papa was talking to the man on the stool next to him.

“Of course the Bruins are dirty -- always have been,” he said. “My kind of game.”

The guy huffed -- maybe that was a laugh? -- and said, “Yeah, you did like to mix it up. What do you think of the Vegas team?” 

Bob snorted.

“Who ever heard of hockey in the desert?” he said. “No wonder they haven’t been able to do anything since they came into the league. They should move that team somewhere it will be appreciated. And learn not to take it like that.”

“Fucking pussies,” the guy next to him said.

Bob didn’t say anything as he turned back to the game, watching Rask make an easy save on a weak shot.

Jack slid onto the stool next to Bob on the other side and tried to figure out how to approach him. After Parse and Maman, he was pretty sure Bob wouldn’t know who he was, even though this whole alternate-reality thing didn’t make much sense. But when did anything with Johnson ever make sense?

“Uh, Bob?” he said. “Mr. Zimmermann?”

When Bob turned toward him, Jack could see the differences in his face. Bob’s nose had been broken and not healed well, and his front teeth were clearly not his own. His nose and his cheeks were red, and Jack could see the tracings of broken blood vessels. If Kent looked like he was maybe drinking more than he should, Bob looked like he definitely was. Or maybe it was just the difference 25 years made.

“Bob’s fine, son,” his father said, and Jack’s stomach swooped. First, because Bob didn’t look fine, and second, because he called Jack “son.” Jack knew Bob didn’t mean it like that; Jack was pretty sure it would be safer not to get Bob’s attention by calling him “Papa.”

When Jack got lost in looking at him, Bob moved the conversation along.

“You a hockey fan, son?” he said. “You know who I am. What’s your name?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jack said. “I’m Jack. Jack Zi--”

He caught himself.

“Just Jack.”

“NIce to meet you, Just Jack.” Bob said. “What do you think?”

Bob nodded towards the TV. Jack obediently turned his eyes that way and watched Marchand take the feet out from under Jeff Troy. Then the buzzer sounded to end the period.

“I don’t like the way the Bruins play,” Jack said. “There’s no need for it. But they’re going to win. They’d win without the dirty stuff, too, though.”

“Ouais,” Bob agreed. “The Aces are a few cards short of a full house, eh?”

Jack shrugged.

“They could use someone with some speed and some skill in the middle,” he said. “That would complement the guys they have.”

“Everyone could use someone one like that,” Bob said. He eyed Jack up, and Jack found it eerily similar to the way it felt when Alicia looked at him. “Especially if he’s 6’1”, what, about 210? You play?” 

“Closer to 215, and yes, I do play,” Jack said. “But I wasn’t talking about me. It wouldn’t even have to be someone as big as me. Just someone quick, a playmaker. That’s what it looks like to me, at least.”

Bob made a noise that might have been agreement.

“Where d’you play?” he said. “You look familiar, but I can’t say I recognize you.”

“Played in the Q for two years,” Jack said. “NCAA now.”

Johnson was behind Bob, shaking his head like Jack wasn’t supposed to say that. Because -- because according to Johnson, he didn’t exist and therefore didn’t play anywhere. Well, fuck that.

“What school?” Bob asked.

“Samwell,” Jack said. “It’s in Massachusetts.”

“I know where it is, son,” Bob said. “I used to know someone who went there. Even visited it a time or two. Haven’t heard much about the hockey program, though. You guys any good?”

Jack shrugged at that. What was he supposed to say? That they were leading the ECAC and he had hopes of at least making it to the Frozen Four?

“We do okay,” he said.

“You must be on break from school,” Bob said. “You from around here? Visiting family?”

“I came to find you,” Jack said. “I knew you lived around here, and you’re one of the greatest players of all time. My friend and I” -- Jack nodded toward Johnson -- “wanted to say hello. I guess I’m trying to make sure I’m on the right track, figure some things out.”

The bartender stopped in front of Jack and broke in.

“What can I get you?” he asked. Well, sure, Jack thought. He’d been sitting here more than a couple of minutes.

“Uh, I don’t really drink,” he said. “Water?”

The bartender gave him a disgusted look. Bob looked pointedly at his half-empty glass.

“Uh, and another one for him,” Jack said.

The bartender nodded and upended a bottle of bourbon over a highball glass.

“Generous,” Bob said, as the bartender placed the drink in front of Bob.

Jack reached into his pocket to pay and suddenly realized he had no wallet.

“Shit,” he said. “I must have come out without my wallet. Johnny, do you have --”

Johnson shook his head. “I’m not from here either,” he said.

“Well, no matter,” Bob said. “Put it on my tab.”

“Your tab’s getting pretty big, Bob,” the bartender said.

“Wait a minute,” the guy next to Bob said. “This joker doesn’t play for Samwell. Look.”

He held out his phone, whose screen was showing the Samwell Men’s Hockey roster, complete with head shots. Jack thought he recognized Ransom and Holster near the top, but that was it.

“And they’re not really doing okay,” the guy said. As if that mattered. “They’re last in their conference. Well, first in hits. And in penalty minutes.”

“So who are you, really?” Bob said, sounding a little annoyed now. “And why spin that story?”

“I wanted to see you,” Jack said. “I’m your son --”

“I think if you check my bio, you’ll find that I don’t have any children,” Bob said. 

“I was born Aug. 3, 1990,” Jack persisted.

“1990?” Bob said. “Nope. Even if you were an accident from a one-night stand … I would have been married to Alicia then, and I didn’t cheat on her. At least not until --”

“You cheated on Maman?”

“That’s it,” Bob said. “You’re not my kid, and I know you’re not Alicia’s. Marty, get them out of here.”

Marty started to come around the bar, and Jack thought it was mighty ambitious of him to think he could forcibly remove two full-grown hockey players. 

Then again, Johnson was focused on the TV, watching a replay of the end of the period, and smiling when the buzzer sounded.

Then Bob got up to join Marty.

Marty grinned and said, “All right, out you two pixies go. Through the door, or through the window. It’s up to you.”

“Never mind,” Johnson said, his attention back inside the bar. He grabbed Jack’s arm. “We were just leaving.”


	4. SMH

Jack sucked in a breath of the cold night air. “My dad -- he was never like that. Not with me.”

“But he’s not your dad,” Johnson said. “Having kids changes people. It changed your parents -- made them different people from the ones you just met.”

“By the way, what happened back there? I lost you for a minute.”

“You wouldn’t believe it anyway,” Johnson said.

“We’re in an alternate reality where I don’t exist,” Jack said. “Try me.”

“When a buzzer like that goes off, it means someone like me -- a side character -- gets their own story,” Johnson said. 

“Huh,” Jack said. “Lot of buzzers in hockey. And baking.”

“I guess,” Johnson said. “Where to now?”

“I want to see the team.”

“What team?” Johnson said.

“My team.”

“You don’t have a team,” Johnson started.

“I know, I know,” Jack said. “I don’t exist. I’ve never been born. I mean the Samwell hockey team. It can’t be totally different. I know Ransom and Holster are there.”

Johnson shrugged. 

“This narrative is all about you, so let’s go. Close --”

“My eyes,” Jack said. “I get it.”

Jack closed his eyes and waited a moment. He knew he was still outside in the cold at night, but he felt something shift. The air smelled less like Montreal, and more like stale beer. Samwell.

Jack opened his eyes, expecting so see the welcoming front porch of the Haus. He was disappointed. Instead, he saw the front of a bar, the hole in the wall next to Jerry’s. In three and a half years at Samwell, Jack had never set foot in there, never even been tempted.

Fortunately, it didn’t look like he would have to start tonight. Ransom and Holster were stumbling out the door, both at least four or five drinks in.

Ranson tripped over the threshold and fell into Holster’s arms. Holster caught him and pushed him back upright.

“Thanks, bro,” Ransom said. “You’re my hero.”

“Thanks, bro,” Holster said. “But no homo, right?”

A flash of sadness crossed Ransom’s face before he said, “‘Course, dude. What do you think we are, LAX bros?”

“I know, right?” Holster said. 

He looked away, probably to hide the frown that appeared, and caught sight of Jack and Johnson.

“What are you looking at?” he said.

Great. Just what Jack needed, a drunk and belligerent Holster. Jack wasn’t sure if it was better or worse that Ransom was there. 

“Nothing, guys,” Jack said. “Just thought you looked familiar. Wait -- you guys play hockey, right?”

“Yeah,” Holster acknowledged. “You’ve been to a game?”

“I’ve been to Faber a few times,” Jack said. “D-men, right?”

“Right,” Ransom said, a smile lighting his features. “Always glad to meet a fan.”

“I’m a big fan of the Wellies,” Jack said. “Rough season or not.”

“Man, you know it,” Holster said. “This season sucks balls. Big, hairy balls.”

Jack fell in step next to Holster and Ransom, Johnson trailing.

“What do you think the problem is?”

“It’s everything, dude,” Ransom said. “I mean, after last year, everything was a mess. New coaches, people kicked off the team. … It’s starting all over, man.”

“But hey,” Holster said. “We’re not the LAX team, at least. Fucking fairies.”

“Dude,” Jack said. “Not cool.”

“Why? You a homo?” Holster put some distance between him and Jack. 

“It’s just not cool,” Jack said. “This is Samwell, remember? One in four and all that?”

“I know, man,” Ransom said. “It sucks.”

Jack took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was outnumbered, if he didn't count on Johnson, and really, he didn't even know what Johnson was talking about. Then again, if he didn't exist, could he really get his face beat in? Probably best not to find out.

“Why’s that?” he asked as neutrally as possible.

“‘Cause every team we play feeds us shit,” Holster said. “Offering to let us suck their dicks, asking which ones are the gay ones, have they turned us all into fa--"

“I get the picture,” Jack said. And he did. The team had gotten some of that when he was a freshman, but between Hall and Murray calling out the refs until they did something about it and the team, led by Shitty, giving full-on tutorials on sexuality and gender every time it came up -- and a couple of the upperclassmen suggesting their opponents were welcome to suck some Wellie dick if they were so interested -- well, it stopped pretty quickly. “But that's more on the other teams than the students here, isn't it?”

“You sound like Shitty,” Holster said. “Rans -- Ransypoo, doesn't he sound like Shitty?”

“Not with that accent, bro,” Ransom said, and giggled. “And he's wearing way more clothes, thank God.”

“Yeah? Is Shitty on the team?” Jack asked.

“Not anymore,” Ransom said. “That was what started all the trouble last year. Shitty and his weed.”

“They blew up the team because of a little weed?” Jack asked.

Holster scoffed. “Wasn't exactly a little, dude. He had a fucking farm going in the basement. At least, apparently he did. Dude could have shared if he had that much.”

“Anyway,” Ransom continued, “someone on the LAX team narced to the administration, said he was selling to freshmen.”

Shit. Shitty should have known better. If Jack had been here, he would have made sure Shitty knew better. Jack turned and raised his eyebrows at Johnson, hoping he got the message that yes, Jack knew what Johnson would say without him having to say it in front of Ransom and Holster.

“Didn’t anyone stop him?” Jack asked. “Where was Lardo?”

“Who?”

“Lardo? The team manager? Vietnamese woman? Small but terrifying? Uh, maybe you know her as Larissa. Larissa Duan.”

“I don’t know where you got that, man,” Holster said. “The manager last year was this lump named Tiny. Who was the size of a mountain, and about as energetic. Dude didn’t do anything. We never found one for this year, so it’s not much different.”

“Wait, Holtzy -- I think I remember her hanging with Shitty a couple of times. Art chick, right?”

“Right,” Jack said.

When there was no more information forthcoming, Jack said, “So they kicked Shitty off the team? That sucks.”

“Off the team and out of school,” Ransom said.

“Harsh,” Jack said. “So did he transfer somewhere else?”

“Nah,” Ransom said. “He just made himself a permanent fixture in the quad, ranting about all that gender stuff. Weird, though, because I’m pretty sure he’s straight.”

“And they let him?”

Ransom shrugged. “As long as he’s not actually smoking out there. Most people just laugh at him. He’s harmless.”

Ransom and Holster stopped suddenly outside a residence hall, making Jack overshoot and have to turn around to face them.

“This is us,” Holster said. “Good to meet you, uh …”

“Jack. And this is Johnson.”

“Good to meet you guys,” Ransom said.

“Can I ask one more question?” Jack said. “You guys know where Shitty lives these days?”

“Sorry, man,” Holster said. “But if you’re looking for him, he’s usually at Annie’s about this time. He gets the munchies.”

“Thanks, guys,” Jack said. 

“Sure, dude,” Holster said. “And about what we said … if you’re, like, gay or anything, that’s cool, you know? We just get sick of the slurs every single game.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “I can see how that would be frustrating. Wait -- just one more question. Do you two know a student named Eric Bittle? I thought he played hockey, but I might be wrong … Little guy, at least for a hockey player?”

Ransom and Holster looked at each other, then shook their heads. 

“I’d have to check the spreadsheet to be sure.” Ransom said. “But I don’t think we’ve ever heard of him.”

Ransom and Holster turned and went into the residence hall, leaving Jack and Johnson standing on the sidewalk.

“Where to now?” Johnson asked.

Jack considered. They could probably walk to find Shitty, but Jack felt like he had a line on him already. And finding people hadn’t been a problem. He looked up at the stars and sucked in a breath. 

“Lardo first?” he said.

Johnson nodded. “You know the drill.”

Jack closed his eyes, and by the time he opened them again, he could hear cars passing and feel a pedestrian brush past him. He wasn’t on campus anymore, or even in Samwell. A look at the sign that hung over the intersection told him he was on Dorchester Avenue. Boston then, or Dorchester. Jack knew Lardo had family here, but he also knew she didn’t visit very often, even though it was less than an hour from school.

He looked around, finally spotting Lardo in a storefront across the street. Christmas lights hung inside the window, which had a name in Vietnamese painted on it. There was also a sign that said “Hair-Nails-Facials-Waxing” in English. Some kind of a salon. Lardo was kneeling in front of a chair by the window, then standing up and dropping a scrub brush in a bucket and peeling off vinyl gloves. Jack watched while she carried the bucket through a door at the back, then reappeared without it and started to do something at the cash register.

Jack waited for the traffic light to change, then crossed the street ahead of Johnson and pushed the door open.

“We’re closed,” Lardo said without looking up. “Hours are on the door.”

Jack turned back to look, then remembered he wasn’t here to get his nails done. Or to be waxed, thank God.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Jack said.

Lardo did look up then, giving Jack a dismissive once-over, and said, “We do hair, nails, facials and waxing. That’s all. You can call tomorrow morning to make an appointment if you want.”

“No, really, I want to talk to you, Lardo,” he said. “Just talk.”

“Who told you my name is Lardo?” she said. “It’s not, for the record.”

“Larissa, then,” Jack said. “Larissa Duan. But someone did call you Lardo. It was Shitty, right? When you went to Samwell?”

Lardo -- Larissa -- nodded slowly. “Did Shitty send you here? What do you want? Because I don’t have any stuff here, and I’m not about to buy any. Not in my aunts’ shop. Shitty’s the guy with the stuff. Not me.”

“No, really,” Jack said. “I just wanted to find out what happened to you, and what happened to Shitty. I was away for a while -- a few years really.”

“Away?”

“It’s complicated,” Jack said.

“Rehab?” Lardo asked.

“I’ve been there,” Jack said. “But that’s not everything.”

“So if you’re a friend of Shitty’s, why come here?”

“He talks -- talked -- about you a lot,” Jack said. “I ran into some guys at Samwell who said you weren’t around anymore. I wanted to know what happened. How does an artist -- Shitty said you’re amazing -- end up working in a salon?”

“Managing, thank you very much,” Lardo said. “My two aunts own it. After my freshman year at Samwell, my dad lost his job, and I needed to work. There wasn’t anything that paid enough at school.”

“So you just quit?”

“Dude, Samwell kind of has a thing about not letting you live in the dorms and go to classes if you haven’t paid,” she said. “Who are you, anyway? How do you know Shitty?”

“We played hockey together.” 

“At Andover?” she asked. “‘Cause he didn’t seem to like many people from there.”

“Club team,” Jack improvised. 

“Right,” she said. “Because you look like you and Shitty exist in the same hockey universe. What did you say your name is?”

“Jack, Jack Zimmermann.”

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here, Jack Zimmermann, since looking up a friend of a friend you’ve never met doesn’t make much sense.”

“I did want to buy something -- not weed,” Jack improvised. “I was hoping to buy some art.”

Lardo looked down at her hands on the counter, and when she looked up, her face was carefully blank.

“I don’t do that anymore,” she said.

Jack cursed himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make you sad or … why did you stop?”

“It’s not practical,” she said, giving the last word bitter emphasis. “Now I manage the shop and take business classes at Suffolk. Sorry I can’t give you what you came for.”

“I’m sorry I bothered you,” Jack said. “And I know you have no reason to listen to me, but remember, you’re an artist if you make art. Even if you have to take one class at a time, or no classes at all. And if it’s important to you, you won’t be happy without it. I tried to live up to other people’s expectations for a long time, and it nearly killed me.”

With that, he turned to the door, brushing past Johnson, who was lurking there.

“Time to see Shitty,” he said, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he was in the doorway of Founders, looking out on the quad. He saw Shitty, wrapped in a plaid flannel blanket and a fake fur hat, collecting a folding chair and sleeping bag from near the well. 

Jack stepped out of the doorway, his footsteps crunching on the crisp snow. He waved and called, “Shitty!”

Shitty ambled towards him. When he got close enough, he seemed to realize he didn’t know Jack.

“Who are you?” he asked. “Did my father send you? Because I’m not going to fucking Harvard for business school.” 

“Okay,” Jack said. “My name’s Jack, and I’m not going to make you, and your dad didn’t send me. But if you’re not going to Harvard, what are you going to do?”

“Find some food, man,” Shitty said. “Fighting the patriarchy is hungry work.”

“Yeah?” Jack said. 

“But Annie’s doesn’t close for another 20 minutes,” Shitty said. “I got about 15 minutes to get there before they put out the trash.”

“Why — You’re eating the trash?”

“Don’t look like that,” Shitty said. “The guy who usually puts out the trash on Saturdays leaves the unsold food in a separate bag right on top. I’m saving the food from going to waste. And it’s free.”’

“Shits, since when are you worried about how much food costs?” Jack asked. “Isn’t your family richer than God?” 

Shitty narrowed his eyes at Jack. “So you do know my family after all?”

“Know _of_ them, yeah,” Jack said. “But not like they’re giving me orders. I’d buy you a real meal, but I don’t have any money either.”

Shitty looked him up and down, from the New Balance running shoes to the Under Armor hoodie. “No offense, but you don’t look broke.”

“I just don’t have my wallet.”

“Left on a run and got lost? And decided to stop me and question my life choices? What about your friend?”

Jack glanced back at Johnson, who was following at a discreet distance.

“Him neither. His name’s Johnson.”

“And you’re sure you’re not here to talk me into taking the old man’s deal?”

“I don’t even know what the deal is,” Jack said. 

“I go to fucking Harvard and I get my allowance back,” Shitty said. “He cut me off when I got expelled from this shithole.”

“If this place is a shithole, what does it matter?” Jack said. “Why don’t you leave?”

Shitty didn’t answer while they walked into the alley behind the coffee shop. “It’ll be just a minute now,” he said.

As if on cue, the door opened and a blond guy came out. Shitty grabbed a big bag and helped heft it into the dumpster. Then the guy pulled out a smaller bag, full of scones and muffins.

When he stepped into the alley, he saw Jack and Johnson.

“You have friends today?” he said.

“Yeah, but they’re broke too,” Shitty said. “And not really dressed for the weather.”

Jack’s heart stuttered when the guy said, “Y’all are welcome to sit in there ‘til I’m done cleaning, but then I gotta lock up,” but of course it wasn’t Bittle.

Then not-Bittle said, “And I haven’t emptied the coffee maker yet. I can probably get three cups out of it.”

“Thanks, Nibs,” Shitty said. “I owe you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the guy said, holding the door open for them to enter through the kitchen.

The guy -- Nibs -- poured their coffee, then took the bag of pastries back. He took three out and put them in an oven and shooed the other men into the front of the shop. 

When the oven buzzer, went off Jack gave Johnson a knowing nod.

Finally Shitty said, “That’s why I stay. People like Niblet there. You know I was the first person he ever came out to?”

“And now he gives you free food.”

“Well, yeah, but just ‘cause he’s a cool dude who likes to feed people. Anyway, I know this place thinks way too much of itself. It thinks it’s a liberal paradise, and it’s not. It’s too white and Eurocentric, and even if it prides itself on the whole ‘one in four’ thing, there’s so much adherence to the heteronormative patriarchal tradition and so much unconscious and overt misogyny. But there are so many people here who are so earnest, y’know? Like I feel like I might actually make some headway here, if I could just get people to listen. At least, for everyone who’s not a LAX douche.”

He paused to take an enormous bite of a cranberry-orange scone, and Jack had to resist the urge to brush the crumbs out of his mustache.

“And I’m learning to live in solidarity with the poor. By actually being poor.”

“Shitty, you know you’re not really poor, right?” Jack said. “You have choices.”

“Maybe you don’t know my family after all.”

Jack shrugged. “I know they paid for you to come here even though you chose it at least partly to spite them. Pretty sure they wouldn’t let you actually starve if they could help it. Might make the food taste bitter going down, though.”

“Damn straight,” Shitty said. “Or, like, true.”

“So why’d you do it?” Jack said.

“Do what?”

“Fuck everything up. Seems to me, you were going to school, playing hockey, hanging out with Lardo, things were cool. Then you ruined it by starting a weed farm in the basement. Got yourself kicked out, got the team torn apart. The Shitty I knew would never have been that reckless.”

Shitty stared at him, eyes wide and a little glassy.

“I wasn’t reckless,” he said finally. “A weed farm? I had like two plants. Personal use only. But they came in and said unless I left school they were going to charge me with cultivating like 50, and dealing.”

“How could they do that?” Jack said. “If there was no evidence.”

“Brah, look,” Shitty said. “I don’t know who you are, but you seem to know who I am. How is that?”

Jack looked over at Johnson. 

“Can I tell him?”

“Suit yourself,” Johnson said. “You’re not like a secret agent or anything.”

“Tell me what, brah?”

“This is an alternate reality,” Jack said. “In my reality, we both go to Samwell, and we both play on the hockey team. Lardo is still there. She’s the hockey team manager. In this reality, I don’t exist.”

“Riiighht,” Shitty said. “I didn’t smoke that much today.”

“I know it seems unbelievable,” Jack said. “But you’re clearly the same guy. Where I come from, you had five people come out to you in two weeks. You changed the culture of the hockey team, that’s for sure. You made the guys more aware of what they say and how it affects people. Shits, you were my best friend.”

“I was your best friend?” Shitty said. “What happened?”

“I’m here, for one thing,” Jack said.

“Can you go back?”

Jack looked at Johnson.

“I assume so,” Johnson said. “Once you’re done with whatever you need to do here.”

“And we messed up there, too,” Jack said. “I think they’ll keep the team together. But only if I leave.”

He didn’t say it would also mean giving up his goal of playing in the NHL. He didn’t know if Shitty would believe it anyway. 

“Nah. man, you can’t do that,” Shitty said. 

“It would be the best thing for the team,” Jack said. “I’m screwed either way.”

“Lemme guess, you’re the captain?”

Jack nodded. “It was my responsibility.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Shitty said. “But you gotta try, brah. When campus police came to the Haus to ask about my plants, our captain didn’t do a thing. Hell, he opened the basement door for them. I don’t know. Maybe if we had a strong leader, we could have at least stayed together. But pretty much it was every guy for himself, trying not to get kicked off the team.”

“So how did they say you had a lot of plants if you only had two?”

“One of the Chads,” Shitty said. “He got caught with weed in the library, and he was gonna get kicked off the LAX team if it got formally reported. But he told them he got it from me, and that I had like a forest growing in the basement. Which was bullshit, because even if I was selling, I never would have sold to that dickhead. Then they said I must have gotten wind of it and moved everything before they came looking. Which makes no sense, because why would I leave my two piddly little plants there?”

He stopped to take another bite, then a sip of his coffee.

“I was set up,” he continued. ”And I think I know who did it. I think it was that lump of a manager. He never liked me because I said we should hire Lardo so she could stay in school, but the rest of team didn’t like it. Said we couldn’t have a manager who couldn’t skate, which translates to they didn’t want to take orders from a girl. Fucking douches. They might as well be on the LAX team.”

“Is the whole team like that?” Jack asked.

“Nah,” Shitty said. “Ransom and Holster -- Oluransi and Birkholtz -- were okay. And there was a new pair last year -- O’Meara and Wicks -- who I’m pretty sure are part of the one-in-four, but they kind of avoided the Haus.”

“Was there another guy -- smaller, blond, from Georgia?” Jack said.

“Like Nibs?” Shitty said. “I don’t think he ever played hockey. Why? You got someone like that where you come from?”

“Yeah -- his name’s Bittle, but the guys call him Bitty. Amazing speed, sweet hands, but gay and out. I was afraid he wouldn’t be so welcome here.”

“Nah, man, I don’t know him.” 

Shitty drained the last of his coffee, then sat up. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I might have seen him on a prospect tour. He seemed a little overwhelmed, though.”

Nibs came into the front with a cloth to wipe their table.

“Sorry, y’all, but I’m done so you’ve gotta get going,” he said. “I’ll let you out the back.”

“Do you have somewhere to go?” Jack asked Shitty as they made their way back through the kitchen, carrying their bagged up trash with them.

“Sure do,” Shitty said. “After the incident --” Shitty made air quotes with his fingers “--the university condemned the Haus. I think they want to knock it down and build a guest place for visiting dignitaries. But they haven’t yet, so I’m chilling in my old room. ‘S long as I wait for dark, I can get in and out the kitchen window.”

“All right,” Jack said. “Well, keep fighting the good fight, I guess.”

“You headed back now?” Shitty said. “Because the me there, he’s lucky to have a friend like you. You can tell him I said so.”

“Will do, Shits,” Jack said. “If there was a me here, he’d be lucky to have you too. But I think there’s someone else I have to see first.”

Nibs locked the back door and walked away, tossing a “See you later, Shitty,” over his shoulder.

Jack was about to close his eyes when Shitty stepped forward and wrapped him in a bear hug.

“You’re not leaving without at least a hug, you fucker,” Shitty said. “I’ll remember you.”

Jack tightened his arms around Shitty and inhaled the familiar scent of him, a combination of weed and coffee and sweat. He missed home, he realized. He missed people who knew him and liked him despite his awkwardness, people who had been patient enough to get to know him and see past the barriers he put up.

“Me, too, Shitty, me too,” Jack said.

Shitty released him and Jack turned to Johnson. “I want to see Bittle.”


	5. Bittle

“Are you sure?” Johnson said.

Jack nodded. “He’s not here, but he exists in this universe, right? I mean, he didn’t just turn into that Niblet kid.”

“No, he exists,” Johnson said. “He’s shutting down the bakery counter at the Walmart in Madison.”

“Take me to see him,” Jack said, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he was still in an alley, but this one was behind a big cinderblock building. The dumpster was huge compared to the one behind Annie’s, and stood next to a loading dock where an 18-wheeler could pull up. Stacks of pallets and plastic crates loomed on the other side of the dock, and scattered cigarette butts and shards of broken bottles testified to what people did back here.

Jack drew in a breath, feeling the relative warmth and humidity of the air. It was December 20, but the temperature had to be close to 10 degrees. No wonder Bittle was always cold in Massachusetts.

“At least he’s working in a bakery,” Jack said. “It can’t be too bad for him. Should we go inside?”

“He’ll be out soon,” Johnson said. “Just like Niblet at Annie’s, he has to take out the trash.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see,” Johnson said.

A moment later, a door set flush with the wall opened, and a foot in a sneaker shoved a doorstop under it while an an enormous black trash bag made its way through. It was only once the bag was out that Jack could see the person carrying it.

Bittle. Undeniably Bittle, with the lights from the Walmart sign at the top of the building shining down on his golden hair. He was talking out loud as he made his way to the refuse container, and despite the noise coming from inside the building, Jack’s ears drank in the soft drawl.

It was not a happy monologue.

“‘What do you mean you can’t do it by the end of the day?’ she says. As though I can bake a whole cake from start to finish -- and decorate it, mind you -- in an hour! I mean, at home I could probably get that cake baked in an hour, but doesn’t she know you have to let it cool all the way before you even start to frost it? And take care of other customers too. There was a cooler full of cakes anyway, and all I’d have to do is write her message on top. And let’s face it, it would taste just about the same. It’s not like they let me do it my way anyway. And what she said to me -- I guess someone still needs to find the Christmas spirit, bless her heart.”

While he was talking, Bittle dumped the first bag in the massive bin and then went back for two more. Jack watched from the shadow of the open door, motionless, as Bittle worked and talked to himself. When Bittle started to turn to go back in, Johnson poked Jack in the back. Jack got the message: It was now or never. 

Jack stepped into the light, where Bittle would have to see him to get in the door.

Bittle saw him, all right.

His eyes widened and he gasped, his hands coming up in front of him.

“What do you want?” he said in a voice he probably meant to be intimidating.

“It’s okay, Bittle,” Jack said, raising his own hands in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture.

“How do you know my name?” Bittle demanded, the pitch of his voice rising. “I don’t know you. Leave me alone! I don’t have anything -- not my wallet or my phone or anything!”

He tried to dodge around Jack and make for the door, but Johnson had stepped out into the open and was blocking Bittle’s path.

“Don’t,” Bittle said, almost sobbing and scrambling backwards. “Don’t gang up on me!”

Jack’s hands were still up as Bittle’s back collided with his front and then Bittle went limp.

Jack’s first thought was, “So, the problem wasn’t just checking then.”

Then the second thought hit: He was holding onto an unconscious man who had just been yelling for help in a sort-of-dark alley.

Then two more thoughts at once: one, he wanted to kill whoever had done whatever it was that made Bittle do this; and two, it felt nice to have Bittle in his arms.

Maybe it was just because no one had touched him on this whole strange journey, no one except Shitty. Three years ago, when he was in his first year at Samwell, no one besides Shitty ever touched him. Now the guys included him in their roughhousing and wrestling and back-slapping and bro-hugs.

But Bittle … Bittle didn’t do roughhousing. He didn’t really do hugs, either, not bro-hugs at least. When he hugged someone, it was deliberate, and it usually had a purpose: to offer comfort, most often, or to congratulate one of the frogs on an accomplishment. Jack couldn’t think of a time Bittle had hugged him, outside of a celly on the ice, or when Bittle finally made progress during their checking practices.

That must be why he smelled so familiar. The citrus shampoo was the same, as was the aroma of vanilla and cinnamon that clung to him. Jack realized he was bending his head down to catch the scent as Bittle sagged against his chest.

“Earth to Jack,” Johnson said, and if Johnson was casting himself as the down-to-earth one, Jack must have really zoned out. “Maybe we should get him over to the wall before he comes to and starts yelling for help.”

Johnson was already walking to a patch of shadow next to the pallets, an area that wouldn’t be easily seen from the door or the entrance to the alley. He swept the detritus of cigarette butts and candy wrappers away with his foot before taking off the hoodie Jack had given him and laying it on the asphalt.

“Do you think we need to put him in recovery position?” Johnson asked.

“He never really threw up or anything when he fainted before,” Jack said, as he kneeled to lower Bittle onto the fleece jacket gently. “But I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

He was trying to get Bittle curled on his side when Bittle started to open his eyes. As soon as he realized Jack was touching him, he tried to push himself away, and ended up with his back against the wall.

“Don’t touch me.” he said. “I’m not what they said. I’m not a fa-- fairy. I don’t want to -- “

Bittle stopped before saying what he didn’t want to do.

Jack sat back on his heels, a careful 10 inches between his knees and Bittle’s. Johnson was another two or three feet behind him.

“Please don’t be afraid,” Jack said. “We’re not going to hurt you. I promise.”

“Okay,” Bittle said, still a little breathless.

“We just wanted to talk to you,” Jack continued. “No one here has said anything to us about you, and we’re not going to make you do anything you don’t want.”

“Okay,” Bittle said. “I have to get back inside.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Jack asked, pitching his voice low and soothing. “Can I taIk to you when you’re done?”

“Why?” Bittle challenged, and there was the bravado Jack knew. “I don’t know you. And if you wanted to talk to me you could have come inside the store and come to the counter. If you didn’t want to be seen, well, it must be because you wanted to do something you’d get in trouble for. Hurt me or … I don’t know what kind of boy you think I am.”

Jack couldn’t just say that whatever power was wafting them around this universe had deposited them in the alley. Shitty -- a Shitty who had been smoking -- was more likely to roll with it, even if he questioned his own acceptance of the story the next morning. 

Bittle would dig his heels in, try to poke holes in the story and figure out what their game was.

“I thought we got here too late to catch you inside,” Jack said.

“If this is about a cake you need by Christmas, the bakery counter opens at eight --”

“Not about a cake order,” Jack said. “Besides, don’t you really prefer pie?”

“Of course,” Bittle said. “The balance of the crust with the filling, the way you can experiment with the flavors … and it’s not overwhelmed by all that cloying frosting. But when we make it here, I have to use the premade crust and the canned filling. … If you want a pie, I could probably make one at home --”

“Non, non,” Jack said softly. “I mean, I would love one of your pies, but we’re not going to be here long and that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

“You sound -- you don’t come from around here, do you?”

“Non,” Jack said. “Definitely not, and I don’t know how much time we have. Listen, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry about before. You’re sure you’re okay now?”

Bittle nodded. “Sorry for scaring you.”

“I think that’s my line, bud,” Jack said. “But after you finish up, we can meet you somewhere where there’s people, if that would make you feel better. Only -- long story, don’t ask -- neither of us has our wallets, so maybe not a place where we have to buy food or anything.”

Bittle bit his lip, considering. The expression was so familiar, Jack found himself wanting to reach out and run his thumb over the tooth marks Bittle left. Which was ridiculous, because he never would have done such a thing with his Bittle.

But you’d want to, his brain unhelpfully argued.

“There’s a Waffle House just down the road,” Bittle said. “I can afford a couple of cups of coffee and some waffles for y’all. I’d invite you home but Mama and Coach …”

“That’s fine,” Jack said. “Point us in the right direction and we’ll start walking.”

“You ain’t got a car, either?”

At the shake of Jack’s head, Bittle sighed the sigh that Jack had heard directed at the frogs time and time again. He interpreted it as, “Oh, you poor lambs, how have you survived this far?”

“Go wait by my truck,” Bittle said. “It’s the black 150 in the far corner of the lot. We should all fit in the cab, for all you two are behemoths.”

“Thanks,” Jack said. “That’s very kind.”

He stood and extended a hand to help Bittle up. 

“Southern hospitality and all that,” Bittle said. “I won’t be but a few minutes.”

The lot in front of the store was almost full, but it didn’t take long to find Bittle’s truck. It was as far as it could be from the store and still be in the lot, parked next to a handful of run-down cars that also probably belonged to the workers. 

The truck wasn’t locked, so Jack climbed in the cab and scooted toward the middle of the bench seat.

“I see your dad wasn’t joking about that Zimmermann charm,” Johnson said, climbing in after Jack.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,”Jack said.

“You know, what Bad Bob says about how he got your mom —“

“I said I don’t know and I don’t want to know,” Jack said. “Besides, I’ve been called a lot of things in my life and charming isn’t one of them.”

Johnson shook his head. “I’m pretty sure 99.9 percent of the population would agree with you, but not Bittle there. I mean, we went from possibly being charged with assault, indecent or otherwise, to getting a ride in his truck to Waffle House, where he’s going to by us food, all by you batting your baby blues at him.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Yes, Jack, it was. And it answered at least one question in my mind.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Now I know that every Eric Bittle in every universe is wired to take an unreasonable shine to you.”

“No, you don’t know that,” Jack scoffed. “You have a sample size of two, and even if this Bittle likes me — which I’m not sure about — the other one …”

The other one had stayed against the wall next to Jack at Epikegster, had giggled about taking a selfie together, had knocked on his door to see if he was alright. Maybe. Maybe Bittle did like him like that. 

“The other one thinks I’m his hard-ass captain who needs to learn to have fun,” Jack finally finished.

“He can think that and still like you,” Johnson said. “You didn’t say he thinks you’re an asshole, which, by the way, would be totally justified after the way you treated him when he joined the team. But if you said that, this whole exercise would be pointless, because even you know that’s not true, and you’d be lying to both of us.”

“And, what, exactly, is the point of this exercise?”

“To show you that the world is a far better place with you in it — at least the world that all these people that you care about live in. You think that when you mess up — or even when things just go wrong without your help — that you’ve failed everyone and they’d be better off without you. But has anyone that we met tonight been better off? At all?”

Jack shrugged. “Maman seemed fine.”

“But she wasn’t your mama, was she?” Johnson asked. “Did she seem happy?”

Jack shrugged again.

Before he could say anything more, Bittle opened the driver’s side door. He’d changed from his khakis and blue Walmart shirt to a red plaid button-down down, its cuffs folded up just so, unbuttoned over a T-shirt and dark skinny jeans. Jack was pretty sure his hair was different, maybe slicked back with some gel, but it wasn’t the sharp undercut that he’d come back to Samwell with for his second year.

“I’m glad you guys went ahead and got in,” Bittle said. “Cold out tonight.”

“Not really,” Jack said. 

“You’re in my truck and you’re arguing with me?” Bittle raised an eyebrow. 

“Just chirping you,” Jack said. “I was born in Canada, so to me, this doesn’t feel cold at all.”

“So that’s where the accent is from,” Bittle said, starting the truck.

Bittle was a good driver, Jack decided, handling the big vehicle with the same ease he had when he moved around a kitchen. But Jack supposed he’d have to be. The restaurant that he said was just down the road had to be at least four kilometers away, so driving would be a necessity.

Jack glanced at Bittle and caught him looking over at him and Johnson at a traffic light. 

“What?” Jack said, a smile threatening to break out.

“Nothing,” Bittle said. “Just, my mama would have my hide if she knew I was driving around with two strangers I met in a back alley. Feels kind of like an adventure. But safe, somehow, too.”

The light changed and Bittle returned his attention to the road. Jack looked at him a moment longer, then started looking for the yellow Waffle House sign.

But his focus was on the feeling of Bittle pressed against his side in the crowded cab. This Bittle hadn’t grown as much as the one he knew; his shoulders were narrower, and Jack thought his torso and thighs were thinner.

Bittle turned into a parking lot a minute later. 

They took a table, and Bittle said, “You guys go ahead and get whatever you want. I don’t know how long it’s been since you lost your wallets, but you’re both pretty big guys, so I bet you’re hungry.”

Jack and Johnson exchanged a glance. It might look like they were casting doubt on Bittle’s ability to pay if they both ordered the cheapest thing on the menu. But Walmart workers didn’t make much, so they had to be careful.

“I think I have to try a waffle here,” Jack said. “Seeing as it’s in the name and all.”

“Me too,” Johnson said. “And coffee.”

It turned out that the waitress -- a girl with a snug shirt and a bouncy ponytail -- knew Bittle.

“Hey, Eric,” she said, carrying the pot of coffee over. “Who’re you friends?”

“This here’s Jack,” Bittle said. “And his friend, Johnson. Guys, this is Kari. We went to high school together. These guys came to get me at the end of my shift. Coffee for all of us, please, and waffles.”

Something in Kari’s expression rubbed Jack the wrong way. Maybe it was the way she kept watching them after she returned to the counter to put their order in.

“Friend of yours?” Jack asked, flashing a media smile when she noticed him looking at her.

“Not so much,” Bittle said. “She went out with the quarterback.”

There was no more forthcoming, and Jack decided not to push it, even though he wasn’t quite sure how that followed.

Bittle broke the silence.

“You said you wanted to talk to me,” Bittle said. “About what? And how do you know who I am?”

“I played hockey at Samwell University,” Jack said. “Johnson, too.”

“Samwell?” Eric said. “I thought about going there.”

“Why didn’t you?” Jack said. 

“They didn’t want me,” Bittle said. “Tuition there is a little beyond what the family budget allows, and they wouldn’t give me a scholarship to play hockey. Said maybe I could work my way onto the team, but …”

“But you couldn’t make it work?”

“Maybe I could have,” Bittle said. “If I really tried, and I talked Mama and Coach into it. But I went to visit, and the team … didn’t seem like they’d want someone like me. They were so big, and so loud and the things they said … it didn’t seem like a good fit.”

He frowned at the memory.

“Are you in school now?”

“I’m saving up,” Bittle said. “I went to the University of Georgia over in Athens last year, but that didn’t go so well. It was such a big place, and the only people I knew were the ones from high school, so it was like I never got away.”

“It is a big school,” Jack said. “They’ve got to have a gay-straight alliance or something.”

“I could never go to something like that,” Bittle said. “People would think I’m … gay.”

The last word came out in a strangled whisper. Anyway, given what Bittle said in the alley, people already thought he was gay. Which wasn’t all that surprising, really.

“So?” Jack said. “What’s wrong with that? I’m not straight. Are you trying to say there’s something wrong with me?”

“Of course not,” Bittle hissed, stopping when Kari approached with waffles. When she left, Bittle continued in a low voice. “You can come here with your boyfriend, but you don’t have to stay --”

“My boyf - - You mean Johnson?”

Jack was honestly surprised at the thought. “I like you, Johnson, but I never thought of you that way. I don’t even know if you like guys.”

Johnson paused before answering.

“I don’t really know,” he said. “I guess I need my own story to find out.”

Something behind the counter buzzed, and Jack smiled.

“You’ll get it,” Jack said. “One of these times.”

He turned back to Bittle and said, “I’m sorry if it seemed like I was trying to imply anything, besides that you could have met some new people. But you’re not there anymore. What are you doing now?”

“Trying to save enough to go to culinary school -- well, pastry school, really -- in Atlanta.”

“Are you playing hockey?”

Bittle shook his head.

“Or figure skating?”

“How do you know -- Never mind. No, I told you I’m trying to save money. I work 30 hours a week at Walmart, then I help out in a little breakfast place too, so there’s not a lot of time. And skating costs money.”

“I get it,” Jack said. When Johnson raised an eyebrow, he insisted, “I really do. You have a goal and you’re doing everything you can to meet it. And I know you don’t believe I know you, but I do know that with your determination, you can do what you set your mind to. That’s really what I came to say. But don’t neglect exercise either. I think you’ll find regular exercise is good for your mental and physical health.”

“Now you sound like Coach -- I mean my dad,” Bittle said. “Who’s gonna have a fit if I’m not home soon.”

They finished eating, and after Bittle paid, he and Jack headed outside.

Johnson looked at Jack and said, “Gotta hit the head. Wait for me?”

Jack walked Bittle to his truck.

“You sure I can’t give you a ride somewhere?” Bittle asked. “We’re kind of in the middle of nowhere, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“No, we’ll be okay,” Jack said, leaning against the door to wait.

Bittle stood directly in front of him, posture erect, chin up.

“You know I’m gay,” he said. It wasn’t a question, so Jack didn’t answer. “And you don’t mind being seen with me.”

“As I said, I’m not straight either,” Jack said.

“Would you kiss me?” Bittle asked, still standing just in front of Jack.

That wasn’t at all what Jack expected.

“What?” 

“It’s just, I’ve never been kissed, and I’m tired of waiting for my first kiss and wondering how I’ll know someone’s willing to kiss me,” Bitty said. “I know you’re out of my league and all, but you said you’re not straight, and you’re moving on anyway, and all I want is one kiss.”

The way he was looking at Jack -- hope and determination and fear plain on his face -- there was no way Jack was going to disappoint him. Or at least, there was no way he was going to say no.

“Come closer,” he said, then cupped Bitte’s jaw in one hand and used the other to draw Bittle near. He brushed their lips together, softly at first, then, briefly, more firmly.

He watched as Bittle stepped back and opened his eyes

“Wow,” Bittle said. “I guess I know what the big deal is now.”

Then Johnson was walking around the trunk, loudly announcing that it was time for him and Jack to move on.


	6. Home

“So what was that?” Johnson said as soon as they rounded the corner of the building and were out of Bittle’s view.

“Nothing,” Jack said.

“Didn’t look like nothing.,” Johnson said.

“It was just a kiss,” Jack said. “He asked. He knew we weren’t staying, so he wasn’t expecting a relationship. It would have been mean to say no.”

“If you say so,” Johnson said.

“Can I ask you something?” Jack said.

“You can ask,” Johnson said. “Doesn’t mean I have the answer.”

“Is this universe real? Or is it just in my imagination?”

“Does it matter?” Johnson asked.

“Of course it matters,” Jack said. “If it’s just in my head, that’s cool. He’s not really here -- just like I’m not really here -- and he’ll be fine. But if it’s real -- I want to go back. I _need_ to go back -- but I can’t just leave him here. This isn’t good for him. He’s trapped with people who don’t like him, and he can’t be himself.”

“And that answers another question,” Johnson said. “Jack Zimmermann is wired to fall for Eric Bittle within an hour of meeting him in any universe.”

“Shut up,” Jack said. “I didn’t fall for him.”

“Sure looked like it from here,” Johnson said. “Tell me, Jack, was that the first time you ever said the words, ‘I’m not straight’?”

“No. I told my therapist in rehab, and my therapist at Samwell.”

“First time you ever told anyone you had an interest in, say, kissing?” Johnson asked. “Because maybe it would’ve been mean to say no, but it looked like you were enjoying it too. If you are ready to go back to your universe, maybe you should try those words out on Bittle.”

“Is that really any of your business?” Jack said. “I thought you were just here to be my guide in this universe.”

“What can I say?” Johnson said. “I’m invested now. I might just be a side character, but this is quite the story. I’ll be sorry to see my part come to an end.”

“Me too,” Jack said. “I feel like I never really got to know you before, Johnson, but you’re alright. You should get your own story. I’d read it.”

Johnson pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. “Thanks, dude. Remember: Listen for the buzzers. Now close your eyes.”

Jack did, and felt the air around him get colder and sharper. A snowflake landed on his eyelashes as he opened his eyes to the ice-covered pond and the silver of light reflecting on snow.

He was alone, sitting on the snowbank where he put his skates on, but there was still a hole in the ice eight feet from the edge where it looked like someone had fallen through.

He had to get back to the Haus and make sure they were all there. Ransom and Holster, the two best -- or at least most enthusiastic -- wingmen a cute gay forward could ask for. Lardo, whose authority on the team was in inverse proportion to her size and skating ability. Shitty, _merde,_ Shitty, the first person at Samwell to embrace Jack despite needing so much love himself. And Bittle. Bitty. Jack had to see Bitty.

He felt his heart rate go up, heard his breathing speed up, and took a moment to focus. Real world. Real anxiety. He still didn’t know if he could save himself and the team. 

Jack took a breath, held it, released it. He did it again. 

If he had to, he’d gladly sacrifice his own career for the team to survive. Playing NCAA hockey in hopes of moving on to the NHL had been a long shot to begin with; it was only in the last year that it looked like it might really happen. There were a hundred other things he could do, anyway. Well, maybe not a hundred. But he could coach. He could put his degree to use and teach history. He could marry Bitty and be his house-husband as Bitty built an empire of out of MooMaw’s pie recipes.

He was getting ahead of himself. Maybe Bitty didn’t want him like that. Maybe everything he had just seen was all in his head, and everyone would be just fine without him. Maybe not.

It was time to find out where he stood, though. Jack picked up his skates, which were lying in the snow next to him, soakers in place, and the puck bag. He balanced his stick over his shoulder and set out for the Haus.

As he walked up to the back door, he could see shadows moving in the windows, and then he heard voices.

“Brahs, has anyone seen Jack? It’s been hours.”

“Yeah, guys, it’s been a really long time,” Ransom said. “He was pretty upset, too, but we really have to tell him what’s going on.”

There was a softer voice -- Bitty. Bitty was there -- but Jack couldn’t hear the words. Then someone else spoke -- Lardo maybe? -- before Holster broke in.

“He’s fine,” Holster said. “We need to stop worrying. Bits, if it helps, I’ll go look with you if you want to go out again. But he’s fine.”

That was when Jack opened the back door.

Bitty, his coat unfastened and one boot on, came flying at Jack and threw his arms around him.

“Jack! You’re alright!” 

Then Bitty stepped back and said, “You know there are no sticks and pucks allowed in the Haus. Go put those on the porch and come back so I can hug you properly.”

“That wasn’t proper enough, eh?” Jack said, but did as he was told.

He was rewarded with what might have been the longest hug he ever got from Bitty, with Bitty’s arms wrapped tightly around his waist and Bitty’s face tucked against his neck. Jack rubbed a circle on Bitty’s back and remembered just in time to not kiss the soft hair on the top of Bitty’s head.

Instead, he murmured, “It’s okay. I promise. I’m fine. I’m sorry I disappeared on you. It’s okay. I’m okay. Really.”

When Bitty finally loosened his hold and Jack stepped back, already missing the warmth of Bitty’s body up against his, he saw Lardo eyeing him with a speculative gleam. He felt the color rise in his face, and he shrugged. She just smiled and nodded.

“Okay, guys,” she said. “Jack’s back. Can we all stand down now?”

“But we have to tell him --” Holster started.

“Wait, everyone,” Jack said. “Look, I’m sorry you couldn’t find me, but I’ve got some bad news, and I had to take some time to think things through before I told you about it. Potter wants to use this … incident ... to dismantle the hockey program and take over the Haus, and he probably can. But he might be willing to let it go if I take responsibility and leave the team. And I’ll do that, if that’s what it takes, so the team can keep playing.”

“You can’t,” Bitty said. With the way his warm brown eyes were looking up at Jack, Jack wanted to just wrap him up and kiss him and keep him warm and not worry about the rest of it. Later, he told himself.

“You don’t have to. And we wouldn’t let you anyway,” Bitty said.

“Did you hear what I just said?” Jack responded. “I’m serious, guys. Potter will suspend the team for the rest of the season, and maybe next season too, and kick us out of the Haus, unless I walk. I can’t let that happen. What kind of a captain would I be?”

“Brah, you know that’s totally not fair,” Shitty said. “You had nothing to do with what happened -- and what they say happened didn’t even happen. At least not the way they say it did.”

“Yeah, Jack, we found evidence,” Ransom said. “Holtzy and I put the feelers out on social media -- Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat, you name it -- and it turns out there are pictures.”

“And videos,” Holster said. “Videos of Shitty walking across the street, videos of Shitty coming back to the Haus, with the not-on-fire LAX hause in the background …”

“And a video of Chad D. dropping a lit match on his own front porch,” Ransom said. “That one made the rounds pretty good, so it took a while to track it to its source.”

“Yeah,” Holster said. “Turns out it was a LAX bro who took it, and he DM’d it to his girlfriend, who’s on the volleyball team. He wouldn’t give it to us himself, but between March and April and Farmer, they talked the girlfriend into giving it up, and she said she’d sign a statement about where she got it.”

“Yeah, think that relationship’s over, but man, she can do better.” Ransom said. “No big loss for her.”

“Dudes, you need to leave that up to her,” Lardo said. “But yeah, that was the choice she made. If that’s not enough, I don’t know what would be.” 

“Maybe,” Jack said. “But they really want to make an example of somebody, and Potter’s always wanted to run me out of here. I don’t know why, really. Like he thinks I’m not good enough for Samwell.”

“That is so not true,” Bitty said.

“Well, I guess all we can do is try, eh?” Jack said. “I’ll make an appointment tomorrow with Potter and campus security, and see what happens. And I’ll try to get in touch with the the rest of the athletic board ahead of time, too.”

“But Jack ...” Bitty started.

Then the front door opened and Jack heard his father’s voice.

“Hello? Anybody home?”

“In here, Mr. Bad Bob,” Bitty called.

Jack’s mother and father came in from the hall.

“Jack!” Maman said. “You should have told your father what happened when you called this morning. We’ve been working the phones since Eric called, and I think we might have this settled.”

“You called … I told Shitty not to,” Jack said, although he was finding it hard to be angry at Bitty.

“You didn’t tell _me_ not to,” Bitty said. “And when we couldn’t find you, and Lardo called and got the story from Professor Boseman, I made Shitty give me your dad’s number.”

“Really, you should have told me right away,” Alicia said to Jack. “Have you forgotten that I’m an alumna -- a very generous alumna -- of this university? I’m not saying I could save you from the consequences if you deserved them, but trumped up accusations like this, of course I’d step in.”

“I’m just here for moral support,” Bob said. “Although my attorney did learn some interesting things about Potter. Apparently, he’s working with a group that wants to bid on the job to tear this place down and build a guest house for conferences and things. Says it’ll be a revenue center for the university … more like a profit center for him, I should think.”

“Anyway, we’ve shared everything -- including the videos you boys sent -- with the members of the athletic board,” Alicia said. “Jack, you do have a meeting with them in the morning, to give them a chance to apologize to you and get back into your good graces. I told them the university wouldn’t get another dime from me until you say so.”

“Thank the gods,” Shitty said. “We need to celebrate.”

He pulled open the fridge and started pulling out cans of beer. Ransom and Holster grabbed beers from him, but Bitty was looking all over the kitchen.

“I could make pie, but it won’t be ready for at least an hour and a half,” Bitty said “I don’t have anything ready. I was planning to go home today.”

“Wait -- that’s right, you all were supposed to go home today,” Jack said. “Why are you all still here?”

“Brah, this whole thing is on me for forgetting the bylaws,” Shitty said. “If I hadn’t tried to make nice, nothing would have happened. I had to stay to try to fix it.”

“You thought we’d leave when our fearless leader was in trouble?” Holster said. “You know that’s not the way we roll.”

“Got your back, Jack,” Ransom said, holding out his fist to bump. “Besides, I was driving and dropping Holtzy off in Buffalo. No skin off our nose to leave tomorrow.”

Jack nodded. “And Shitty and Lardo just have to get to Boston. But Bittle, you had a flight today.”

Bitty was turned toward the open refrigerator, his arms full of butter. “I changed my flight,” he said. “We do have your back, you know?”

“Wait,” Lardo said. “Is anything going to happen to Potter? Or to the Chads, for lying about what happened?”

“We’re not sure about that,” Alicia said. “It’s hard to prove that the boys in the LAX house were lying instead of simply being mistaken. And members of the athletic board have pointed out that there were a lot of underage students here, and that Shitty had open alcohol.”

“Oh, come on,” Shitty said. “On the night exams ended? If that was their criteria for suspending teams, they’d have to fold the whole athletic program.”

“Which is why they are forgoing consequences for the hockey team,” Alicia said.

“Maybe we can show them what was going on at the LAX house?” Ransom said. “We still have all the videos. Not to get them kicked off campus -- just to show that it’s unfair to have one scapegoat because Potter wants this piece of land.”

“That could work,” Bob said. “Especially since Potter’s been pretty vocal in his dislike for Jack since before he got here. Can you show us what you’ve got?”

“Y’all go on,” Bitty said. “I’m gonna do a quick apple cobbler here and I’ll be right out.”

The rest of the team, plus Jack’s parents, moved to the dining room, where Ransom and Holster both had their laptops set up.

Jack leaned against the counter and watched Bitty peel the apples.

“We’re lucky we still had these,” Bitty said. “I didn’t think we had to use them, because they’d keep a good few weeks in the fridge. Could you reach over and turn the oven on to 350 to preheat?”

“Sure,” Jack said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the baggie of cookies.

“I found these in my bag.”

Bitty had moved on to slicing the apples, and his cheeks pinked, but he didn’t look at Jack.

“I just wanted to give you something to cheer you up after last night,” Bitty said. “After … well, that was before all this even happened. Sorry if it was being too pushy.”

“No, it was sweet.”

Bitty giggled at that. “Literally, you mean?”

“No,” Jack said. “Well, yes, but … I mean that it was sweet of you to do that. Did you make them for everyone?”

“Uh, no.” Bitty said. “I made some boxes for the coaches to take home to their families? And for the staff at Faber.”

He kept looking at the flour and egg and spice mixture he was stirring, no matter how much Jack wanted him to turn around. But he couldn’t hide the blush that had turned the tips of his ears pink.

“Anyway,” Bitty continues, “I was just gonna bring the rest home, but you don’t know just how unnecessary more cookies are in my mama’s house at Christmastime. I wanted you to know …”

Bitty paused to spread the topping over the apples. “I wanted you to know that I care about you, I guess, but I didn’t want to make you feel weird or anything.”

“Weird because you’re gay?” And okay, that might have been too blunt, because Bitty froze. 

“Sorry,” Jack said. “However that sounded, I didn’t mean it that way. You know I’m fine with it.”

Bitty’s shoulders relaxed, and he started putting tiny pats of butter on the top of the cobbler.

“Fine with me being gay?” he asked. “Because y’all have been so good about that. Or fine wi--”

“Bitty,” Jack said. “Bits. Please. Turn around.”

When he did, Jack saw the tears that threatened to spill from Bitty’s eyes.

“Hey, now, it’s okay,” Jack said. “You know that Shitty would be mad if I didn’t remind you that no one else gets a say in your sexuality, so it’s not good of us -- of any of us -- to be okay with it. It’s just you and we love you.”

Bitty wiped at his eyes with a knuckle, and said, “I know Shitty would tell you to say that, and I know you mean it, but not everyone would.”

“I’m not everyone,” Jack said. “I know I was kind of an asshole when you got here last year, and I’m sorry. But it had nothing to do with your sexuality. And I’m fine with whatever feelings you have for me.”

“Even if I have an embarrassing awkward unrequited crush?”

Bitty smiled a sad smile while he said it, and the tears were still brimming in his eyes.

“Who said it would be unrequited?” Jack said. He took a slow step forward, and when Bitty didn’t move away, he took one of his hands, and reached up with his other hand to brush the tears away. “I’m not straight, which maybe you figured out after last night with Kent, but I wanted to actually tell you.”

“Oh, my gosh, what is it Shitty says? Thank you for honoring me with this moment?” Bitty said, his giggle getting a little hysterical.

“Let me finish?” Jack said. “I’m sorry if I scared everyone -- I’m sorry if scared you by not being around this evening, but I had to … come to terms with some things. And I made up my mind that I would walk away to save the team if I had to, but also that I didn’t want to walk away without telling you that I -- I really like you, and I want to kiss you. Can I?”

Bitty gave a small nod, and reached up to meet Jack halfway. It was like kissing the Bittle outside the Waffle House in Georgia, but so, so unlike it, too. Bitty wasn’t tentative, at least not after the first couple of seconds, and his body melted against Jack, his arms looping around Jack’s neck to keep him close. When Jack moved to deepen the kiss, when Jack touched just the tip of his tongue to Bitty’s lips, he opened his mouth with a pleased-sounding noise.

Then the oven buzzed.

Bitty settled back on his heels. “I guess it’s ready. I just have to put that cobbler in.”

Jack knew he was grinning like a fool, but he couldn’t help it. Bitty did like him, and the team had his back, and he was going to keep playing hockey, and maybe that buzzer meant Johnson was finally getting his own story.

Shitty poked his head in from the dining room.

“Aces game’s on,” he said. “And we ordered pizza. Ransom and Holster are headed to the store to get breakfast food for tomorrow. And Jack, your parents got a hotel room so they’re going to stay and eat with us then come back in the morning for your meeting. You guys all good in here?”

“Yep,” Bitty said.

“Yes, we are,” Jack said. “We really are.”

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/157689062@N06/45145066194/in/dateposted-public/)

**Author's Note:**

> _Come say on[Tumblr!](http://justlookfrightened.tumblr.com)_


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